Page 76 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

The bed isn’t that wide and my knee shifts onto the metal frame as I push my ass into a prone position. His warm palm slides over my ass cheeks.

“I love this cunt, you know that? It’s so fucking pretty. The pink is the perfect color for blush,” he muses, leaning forward. His face smooshes against me as he inhales and then pulls away.

“I didn’t get to taste her.”

Her?

“But I bet she would smell and taste just as delectable as you do, dirty little doll.”

I wait for his tongue to touch me there, but only cold air assaults me as his weight leaves the bed. “Don’t move.”

The clanking of my cell alerts me to him exiting and the door is left ajar. My head swims with thoughts of escape, but he’s gone only a moment and I haven’t moved. I would have never gotten to the door, let alone passed through it. I’m too busy thinking of my lack of escape to react when he snaps a handcuff around my wrist and to the bedpost. I wiggle my hand, but it’s firm and I’m bound. Another clicking and cold metal snaps over my other wrist, attaching me to the other side.

“Ben…” I stop myself from finishing when his body stiffens next to me.

A cuff wraps around my ankle and then the bed, keeping me stuck in this position.

What’s happening?

He repeats the process and my breathing increases in fear. The hiss and whip of the air as he extends a baton-looking object in his hand makes me flinch. His feet move to the bottom of the bed where I’m splayed open, vulnerable.

Miss Polly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick.

Whack!

Pain like nothing before explodes against my exposed flesh.

So she phoned for the doctor to be quick, quick, quick.

Whack!

“P-please s-s-stop,” I heave, gagging on the saliva filling my mouth as tears I swore I’d never shed for him again pour from my eyes.

The doctor came with his bag and his hat,

Whack!

“Why? Please!”

And he knocked at the door with a rat-a-tat-tat.

Whack!

I’m going to pass out.

He looked at the dolly and he shook his head,

Whack!

The walls of my cell fade as the sound of his torture device hitting my most private place resonates in the small space.

And he said, “Miss Polly, put her straight to bed!”

Whack!“You’re dirty.”

He wrote on a paper for a pill, pill, pill,

Whack!“You’re dirty!” he screams, and as I drift into a state of unconsciousness, I think I hear him cry.

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