Page 35 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

“On your stomach.”

His barked order startles me and I flinch, frowning at him in confusion. “Why?”

I’m worried he’ll go back to hurting me. For months now, he’s done these things to my body. He’s made me feel pleasure I was still too young to really know about. The very idea of him coming in here while in his darkened monster state makes me almost hysterical.

“Don’t question me,” he roars, “just do it.”

I scramble to heed his instruction at the dead tone of his warning. He’s naked and has never come to me like this before. It’s usually in the dead of night when he’s calm.

I’m still hopeful he’ll want me to love him.

I’ll never love him.

That he’ll call me his pretty little doll.

That he’ll put his mouth between my legs like he’s recently started doing and make my mind leave my cell for a brief moment.

“Such a pretty little doll,” he murmurs.

I relax at his words.

He slaps my butt with his palm, leaving a burn there and then he squeezes one cheek with such brutality it winds me.

He rustles with the other hand for something in his pocket, then drops a piece of paper at my face. Gripping my hair in a fist, he raises my head and makes me stare down at the image.

It’s a newspaper article about the anniversary of my and Macy’s disappearance. In the image is an old picture my daddy took. It’s of me and Macy. Bo from next door is butted up against me with an arm slung over my shoulder and his dog Toby lying at our feet as we lean against Dad’s flatbed truck.

“Who is this?” he seethes, his tone so deadly, the chill from it creeps into my bones and freezes me.

“No one,” I assure him, my voice a whisper. “Just my neighbor.”

“Then why in the hell is his arm around you like you belong to him?” he snarls possessively, and I wither in fright. “I’m going to fuck you. You’re mine, little doll. Not his. Mine.”

I’m about to question what the difference between lovemaking and fucking is when he keeps hold of my hair, yanking my head back even farther, stretching me so much, it restricts my breathing.

“Ahhh!” I wheeze out past trembling lips.

“Beg for it! Tell me whose dolly you are!”

Tears streak down my cheeks as I struggle to put my hands on the mattress to keep my hair from being pulled right from my scalp. “Please!”

“Please what?” he demands as he shoves apart my thighs with his knee.

“I’m your doll…”

His grip loosens and I fall back against the new pillow he recently gifted me. People take pillows for granted until they go without one for three years. And when you are gifted one, you’ll feel such appreciation, you almost forget the monster lurking within him.

I yelp when he pushes his hardened cock inside my hot center. As always, my body is receptive and accepting for him.

He’s all I’ve known. The only contact I have.

He oftentimes makes me go without food, feeding my body with his “love” instead.

More times than not, I forgo food anyway, just to have that delicious feeling of my body floating my thoughts away from me.

“You’re my little doll,” he groans against my hair as he thrusts brutally into me. I’m not used to him taking me this way. Everything feels more intense.

“Yes.”

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