Page 13 of Broken Empire
“It wasn’t a dream,” I whispered, mostly to myself.
The man shook his head. “It’s real,” he said, voice sounding guttural behind the balaclava. He motioned toward the white table on the other side of the room. “I brought you some breakfast.”
He reached into his jacket, and I flinched, assuming he was going to bring out a weapon so he could intimidate me. Instead, he pulled out a photo and passed it to me. “After you’ve eaten, you have one hour to get dressed and do your hair and makeup to look exactly like this,” he said. “Make sure you scrub yourself well beforehand, and shave everything below your neck. I don’t want to see a single hair on this body.”
I gingerly took the photo from him and stared at it. A pretty doll with a 50s-style dress, white stockings, black Mary Jane flats, and long pigtails stared back at me. The dress featured a purple and white gingham-patterned bodice, a pleated skirt, and a black Peter Pan collar.
The man in the balaclava turned and left without another word. I stared after him, blinking slowly as my mind registered everything he’d ordered me to do.
Even though I knew this was all real, it didn’tfeelreal.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was waking up in Killian’s bed and lazily stretching out, enjoying my freedom as I watched him catch up on assignments on his laptop beside me. Now I was waking up all alone in some creepy dollhouse and being instructed to eat and dress on someone else’s schedule with the heavy threat of death hanging over my head.
It was utterly surreal. In fact, if it wasn’t so terrifying, I’d want to laugh at how ridiculous it all was. There would be no laughing or smiling for me in this place, though. Only fear, pain, and misery. Robert made that very clear to me before he left last night.
I trudged over to the table and listlessly picked at the toast and fruit salad that had been placed there on pink and white melamine plates. I knew I needed the food to keep my strength up, but I wasn’t sure what I wanted to have any strength for in the first place. This really seemed like the end of the road for me… so wouldn’t it be better if I let myself get to a stage where I was so weak and out of it that I wouldn’t even register what was happening?
No,a firm voice said in the back of my mind.Killian is coming. He always does.
I desperately wanted to trust that optimistic part of my brain, but the other more logical parts kept reminding me that Killian would have to go up against the Schöneberg Group to find and rescue me. That might not be possible, even for a guy like him.
With a gloomy sigh, I went into the bathroom to shower and ready myself for the day, whatever it entailed. Once I was sparkling clean with smooth, shaved skin, I stepped into the walk-in closet and found the purple and white dress, matching underwear, stockings with a garter belt to hold them up, and black Mary Jane shoes. I put it all on before staring at myself in the mirror, nose wrinkling with disgust. I looked like an overgrown child in this outfit already, and I hadn’t even put my hair up in pigtails yet.
I was starting to get the impression that the Russian man and his online followers didn’t really have a doll fetish. It seemed more like they had a fetish for young girls, but they didn’t want to admit it—not even to their anonymous online buddies—so they pretended it was about dolls instead.
I sat down at the vanity and carefully did my makeup to match the look of the doll in the photo—pouty pink lips, heavy mascara, purple eyelids. Then I did my hair in high pigtails and curled the ends.
By the time I was done, I looked like a caricature of the doll in the image. She looked sweet and innocent, but I looked overtly sexual with the white thigh-high stockings drawing attention to my legs and the too-tight bodice of the dress stretching around my chest.
With my heart hammering so hard it ached, I left the closet and returned to the main part of the suite. I was dreading the sick acts I would be forced to perform in this outfit, whatever they may be, but I knew there was no getting out of it.
Before I could sit down on the bed, the door opened, and the man in black entered again.
His chin tilted downward as he assessed my appearance. Then he nodded curtly. “Good job,” he said. He gestured to my body. “Did you shave everything?”
I gulped and nodded wordlessly.
“Good girl,” the man said. I couldn’t see his mouth because of the balaclava fabric covering it, but I could tell that he was smirking at me by the amused tone of his voice. He gestured to the bed and snapped his fingers. “Go and lie down. PyotrTwoDelta’s fans want to meet the latest addition to his collection.”
“Who?”
“PyotrTwoDelta is the username of the man who bought you,” the man in black replied. “No more questions now. Do as I say, or I’ll be forced to punish you.”
On trembling legs, I walked over to the bed and lay on my back. The man in black left the room for a moment, presumably to switch on the live stream of my room. When he returned, he had a large hunting knife in his right hand.
“Pull your dress up,” he commanded, waving the knife close to my throat. “Then put your knees up and spread your legs.”
I gulped and did as he said. The new position made me feel like I was at a doctor’s office waiting for a gynecological exam. The camera above my head was undoubtedly giving all the red room viewers a perfect view of the area between my legs.
I cringed internally at the thought of the underwear coming off to expose every inch of my pussy. I knew it would happen, though. The sick bastards who were watching this stream would demand it.
The man in black cocked his head to the side, like he was listening to something. I narrowed my eyes and spotted a small earpiece sticking out from under his balaclava. Someone in the computer room down the hall was probably feeding him orders given by the viewers.
“Stay still,” he said, stepping even closer to me.
He lowered the knife to the straps connecting my stockings to the garter belt and sawed at one side with the knife. The thin fabric snapped right away, and the man moved to repeat the process on the other side. As he worked at the strap, I lay there trying my best not to move or even breathe in case I somehow caused the knife to slip. It was still hovering over my thighs, and I knew the femoral artery was somewhere around there. If the man nicked it, I would bleed out within a minute.
Then again, maybe that would be a good thing. It would allow me to have a fast death rather than whatever horrible torture lay in store for me over the next week.
