Page 5 of The Doll and The Domination

“Jesus,” Warrose breathes.

“Do we”—Ruth pauses long enough to gulp loudly—“have to do that?”

I want to run back to my oversized birdcage. At least we got more privacy than this in the asylum.

The ceiling is a pointed dome, like the tent of a circus. The walls are a black, rocky texture. The floors are wet and sudsy. And giant broken pipes protrude from the ceiling, spraying down like a raging waterfall.

And underneath that downpour? A room full of naked men and women taking their morning showers. A group shower.

Sentinels stand at either side of the entrance, wearing leather shoulder armor plates, straps with spiked edges, and dull brass studs. They watch the naked figures swiveling around each other with amusement twinkling in their eyes.

The entrance is still filled with prisoners stripping off their raggedy clothes and flinging them down a hole in the wall. But we don’t move. Even Dessin seems caught off guard by the lack of privacy.

“Move!” a sentinel with a long beard and bloodshot eyes bellows at us. “You won’t get fucked unless you ask for it. Now, strip!”

Dessin grunts and then glances over his shoulder at the rest of us.

“No eye contact. Get in and get out.”

We all nod. But fuck, my heart is racing. My stomach is screaming into my esophagus. And every muscle is contracting, begging me to run for it. I watch Dessin unbutton his black pants, but I quickly look away. It doesn’t feel right to appreciate his body when we’re being treated like cattle.

With a quick shimmy, I step out of the strappy rags that keep the essential parts of my body covered. Hands and arms stretch out to throw their uniforms in the large hole in the brimstone wall, like a laundry chute. I mimic the action while holding my breath, throwing my hands over my breasts and between my thighs. Dessin doesn’t bother covering himself. I’m sure it’s easier for men to walk freely with what God gave them.

Dessin, Warrose, and Niles herd us to the center of the room, bumping into naked bodies as they force their way under the downpour. I hiss as the spray hits me like pebbles of ice. Goose bumps prickle over every inch of my skin.

Ruth and Marilynn huddle close to me, elbows smashed against mine as we cover our chests and press our foreheads together, blocking out the scenery we’d rather not see. I’m unsure if our men realize they’re doing it, but they’ve formed a circle around us.

I look up through the uneven torrent of pipe water at Dessin’s scarred back, Warrose’s tattooed shoulders, and Niles’s tan arms, blocking us in a tightly bound circle. They face the other prisoners, ensuring no one comes near us. Making sure there aren’t any lingering eyes that land on us while we’re indecent.

You won’t be able to keep this up, Dessin. My heart tugs at the thought of what’s going through his head right now. He must be out of his mind with territorial alpha energy pumping through his veins. I’m naked, and a bunch of wild Vexamen prisoners get to see.

I catch Ruth’s round brown eyes, and she offers a supportive smile.

“It’s better than the simulated drowning, right?” She chuckles, trying to see the bright side.

I scoff. “Sure is.”

“Is this how we’re going to shower the entire time we’re here?” Marilynn asks, her dark red hair hanging in wet strings over her shoulders and chest.

“Sure is,” Dessin says over his shoulder, running his fingers through his wet hair.

“They’re just being protective,” I whisper.

Marilynn nods, glancing at Niles’s back like she’s trying to figure something out.

“Don’t let his goofy personality fool you.” I lean in closer. “Niles is fiercely loyal and very protective, just like the rest of them.”

“Even though he doesn’t have the masculinity to back it up,” Ruth whispers, snickering as Niles elbows her in the back.

At the other end of the room, prisoners begin to exit, grabbing rags off the hooks on the wall to dry themselves.

“We’ll wait until the room clears,” Dessin murmurs to Warrose and Niles, then hands us bars of soap. They look used already. Smeared in dried blood and dirt. I grimace but accept it anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers.

We lather ourselves quickly, and by accident, my eyes trail up Marilynn’s body. She’s bustier than Ruth and me. By a lot. Curvy, like she’s never tried to abide by the lady-doll regimen.

“Defemúrox egex domïnozoz yuevezezï?”

We turn our heads at the soft male voice behind us. Short. Skinny. Bald. Long braided platinum blond beard.

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