The trip back to Washington is long and exhausting. By the time we land, I can barely keep my eyes open. Bunny sleeps peacefully curled up in her seat and I can’t help but stare at her. She’d really fucking pissed me off when she tried to get off knowing I was going to whip her ass. The woman has an impenetrable will and that worries me. I need for her to learn her place and submit to my desires.
They always do.
But Bunny scares the shit out of me.
What if she doesn’t submit and fights me every step of the way?
What will I end up doing to her because of it?
“Shall I wake her and blindfold her?” Dubois asks, flailing the scarf.
I shake my head and stride over to her. “I’ll carry her to the car. I don’t think she’s going to wake up.”
He nods and I pick her up while he sets to gathering our bags. I catch a whiff of her musky scent which still lingers on her fingers and I groan when my dick hardens. I’m dying to fuck her, even in her still ugly state. None of my past toys were worth touching until Cartier worked his magic.
But Bunny?
She’s already fucking with my head.
Her wide, pretty green eyes, are always blazing with a thousand different emotions—emotions that I crave to understand. Her tiny body responds to me, even when she’s pissed which really turns me on. And her mouth—Jesus, that fucking mouth—says things that I want to both punish and reward her for.
I want to do so much with that mouth.
A gust of evening Washington fall air swirls around us and Bunny whimpers in my arms. I hug her tighter to me and stride down the cement walkway to where the car is waiting. Dubois has already started it and it’s warm when I climb inside with her. I mean to set her on the seat in front of me but instead keep her in my arms. Once again, I find myself wishing for a pause button in life. If only I could step outside of my fucked head for a second and just hold her with no other thoughts brutalizing my mind. To simply inhale her and get drunk off her scent.
Her palm is on my chest and her face pressed up against my neck. I like my toy like this. Normally, I don’t want to hold them. But Bunny is different.
The thought is a dark one that I don’t understand. I’m selfish enough though that I ignore it and continue to hold her. It feels good to keep her warm and secure in my arms. I’ll have to simply adapt to the fact that my rules are ever changing—my game ever evolving.
I end up falling asleep for the long ride from the small airport to my sprawling estate on Lake Sammamish. I’d purchased the nearly fourteen-thousand square feet waterfront Italianate four years ago from a retired engineer. His son was disabled so he’d put in a top of the line elevator that went from the basement indoor pool and sauna room where the child could do his water therapies all the way up to the rooftop floor that was the child’s toy room.
The top floor is what sold me. A circular skylight is above the entryway as you exit the elevator, four doorways leading to exciting rooms fit for a child. The first door on the left is the Theater Room which is decorated with comfy leather chairs, windowless, and houses a stocked candy and soda bar. I added the vintage popcorn machine once I moved in.
The second door is the Fun Room. When I bought the house, it had a couple of arcade games and a pool table. I’d added some pinball machines and board games. It has a wide window that overlooks Lake Sammamish and sometimes I sit up there for hours staring at the lake.
The third door is the Princess Room—a bedroom and is the largest of the four rooms. My toys sleep there. That room was the one that required an entire renovation as it was used for storage before I got my hands on it. I carpeted it with thick, white shag carpet, painted the walls a pale lilac, and purchased a fancy four-poster canopy bed. In the corner is a vintage vanity for my toys to doll themselves up for me when I allow it. The room also has an adjoining small bathroom with a standup shower and toilet. Next to the bathroom is a decent sized closet that I stock with all of my toy’s dress up things. Each toy I’ve shown the room to has squealed like a little girl.
But the fourth room . . . the fourth room is not at all for their enjoyment. It remains locked until I’m ready to play with my toy. The fourth room, I call the Hole. It’s small, windowless like the Theater Room, and holds pieces of my dark soul.
My toys all hate the Hole.
A rush of bitter cold air rushes in the moment Dubois opens the door. Bunny sits up, groggy from the trip and bunches her brows together in confusion to see me holding her. I push her off my lap and she reluctantly takes Dubois’ outstretched hand. He’s parked in the circular drive behind the house in front of the three car garages.
“Wow, this place is gigantic,” Bunny gushes as she climbs out of the car.
I follow after her and peer up at my mammoth of a house. From this spot, you can’t see the lake, which encompasses the entire front of the house and allows for stunning views of the sunsets when it’s not raining. I know she’ll be impressed once we get inside. The stucco and stone on the outside of the home has recently been pressure washed and it sparkles to my liking in the moonlight. After all these years, I never tire at admiring the beauty of my home.
My home.
The moment I bought my first home back in LA, was the first time when I felt like I was able to shut the door on my past. Poverty, struggling to stay warm, starvation—they were all on the other side of the door. Along with her. The woman who couldn’t stay clean long enough to care for her only son.
“Come on,” I bark out in a harsh tone, eager to rid the memory of my mother. “Let me show you the house.”
Bunny lets me take her hand, despite being pissed at me, and follows me in through the large doors. She gasps as the warmth swirls around us once we step inside and I inhale the scent of cinnamon and orange. I’d happened upon the scent while shopping in downtown Seattle a few years ago and it calmed my angry spirit. Now, it’s a required scent in my home. Christine, my housemaid, learned how to cook a lovely concoction of ingredients that wafts through the house. Where it doesn’t reach, she’s plugged in countless flameless burners that are a mixture of orange and cinnamon wax cubes. She changes them out often and I am happiest while at home drinking in the calming air.
“It smells good,” Bunny gushes, mimicking my thoughts.
I flash her a smile of approval and drag her through the marbled floor entryway. If we go straight, the front doors lead out to my sprawling yard overlooking the lake. To the left is my massive kitchen, dark cherry cabinets and tan specked granite encasing smooth, stainless steel appliances. Beyond the kitchen is the dining room, with an expensive table which seats six, overlooking the lake. Between the two rooms is a doorway leading to my wine closet. It’s only about fifteen by fifteen feet but it’s stocked floor to ceiling with imported wines from all over the world.
Across from the kitchen and dining room on the other side of the marbled entryway is an enormous den with dark, hardwood floors, leather furniture and a massive fireplace. The salon and my office are at the other end, with my office having the lake view.
“You can poke around tomorrow while I work. Tonight, I’ll show you to your room so you can get some sleep. Cartier wants to see you first thing in the morning and tomorrow evening we’ll be entertaining guests,” I tell her as I press the button that goes up on the elevator between the den and salon.
She nods, still greedily drinking in all the details of my home. We enter the simple elevator and I press the button with a four on it.
“Top floor is yours. You can play all you want. It’s also where I’ll play with you,” I explain as we ride.
“What’s in the basement?”
“The pool and sauna.”
She nods and a small smile plays on her lips. “Where’s your room?”
“Second floor is the staff quarters. You don’t have access there. There’s a special code to access that and the third floor which is my master suite.”
“When are you going to show me your room?”
I scan her face and frown at seeing her shitty dye job. Cartier can’t fix her soon enough. “You’ll see my room if I feel like showing it to you. Don’t hold your breath though. Everything we need is on the fourth floor.”
Her frown is immediate. “Can I leave?”
I chuckle. “Bunny, you can roam around this house all you want. There’s a code to get outdoors without the alarm going off but you won’t have access to that just yet. If you desire to explore outside until then, you’ll need either Dubois or myself to escort you. But you’re not a prisoner. You’re a paid employee, just like the rest of the staff. Do your job correctly and you’ll be paid handsomely.”
“I see. Who else besides Dubois lives here?”
“Cartier sees to my personal grooming needs and those needs of my toys. Once he measures you and meets you, he’ll shop and make sure your closet is stocked with what’ll suit you best. Most days, I’ll let you dress yourself, but on days we have company or days I want to play, he’ll be the one to dress you to my specifications. You aren’t to balk at what he chooses for you or argue. Just do as you’re told. You’ll be rewarded.”
Tomorrow is one of my favorite days with my new toy. It’s the day that Cartier works his magic and transforms them into something beautiful and elegant. I like seeing my investment evolve into something of value.
“Dubois and Cartier are your only employees?”
I shake my head as the doors open on the fourth floor. “Christine is the housemaid. She does all of the cleaning, cooking, and laundry. I’ve employed her for nearly as long as Dubois and she’s one of the best. I think you’ll like her. All of my toys take to Christine. She sleeps in the third guestroom on the second floor. Occasionally she’s allowed time off and I hire from an agency. They’re the only three who live here with me—the gardeners and pool cleaners come from the agency as well.”
I quickly show her the Theater and Fun Room before guiding her to the Princess Room. Before we enter, she points to the simple black door that stands out from the other white ones that are warm and inviting.
“What’s in there?” she questions.
I pat her bottom and chuckle. “You’ll soon find out what’s in the Hole, Bunny. And I can’t wait to show you. Tonight, I’m tired though so it’ll have to wait. Besides, I’m not showing you until Cartier does something with that hideous hair of yours.”
Her shoulders slouch at my cruel comment and I smile. This is my favorite part. The part when I show my toys the beauty of my home and how I plan to spoil them. The part when I dangle all these pretty things in front of them only to follow that action up with my cruel, fucked up words geared to hurt them. Shit that cuts them off at the knees. I break their spirit one tiny chink at a time so that by the time the six months are over, they’re nothing more than a whittled away piece of shiny shit that belongs to me. And only then do they recall their blissful beginnings. The part when they started out as my mere possession to be toyed with.
And then they are nothing to me.
The thought of saying goodbye to Bunny in less than six months gets my dick hard.
She will cry and beg like the rest of them.
She will love me and plead for a life with me.
Too bad it will be easy to push her away and search for a new toy.
I twist the knob and push into the pretty room. As soon as she steps inside, though, her reaction is not the one I expect. She’s not in awe of the decadent luxury that is this room. Her face doesn’t light up at the sight of the plush four-poster canopy. And perhaps her greatest distinction of all from the other toys who precede her is that she is hardly squealing like a little girl.
“No,” she hisses, “I’m not sleeping in here.”
Snapping my head to glare at her, I’m shocked to see tears in her eyes. She seems afraid of the room I worked so hard to make beautiful. Why is this toy acting like it’s a suite in hell?
“You are sleeping here. This is your room,” I snap. “Don’t be an ungrateful bitch.”
She shakes her head and makes a mad dash for the door. I’m quicker than my toy, and yank a handful of her ugly hair. A sob chokes from her as she struggles to get out of my grasp. Wrestling her away from the doorway, I manage to make it over to the bed with her and toss her onto it. She screeches and scrambles back off. With a grunt, I attack her again. I like the terror in her sobs—whatever is making her upset—and I feed from it. My cock thickens with need and before I can stop myself, I’m yanking her sweatshirt off.
“Get off of me!” she howls. Tears stream down her cheeks and her eyes are wild.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I snarl. “You’re staying here. Don’t make me drug your ass.”
She doesn’t stop squirming but I manage to remove her clothes piece by piece until she’s stark naked on the white carpet. I crave to fuck her right here on the floor—to hurt her—to make her bleed all over the pure, soft carpet.
“Please drug me,” she begs through her tears. “Please. I can’t do this.”
The drug addicted whore stares up at me, begging for me to understand. I don’t fucking understand. I never fucking understand. No longer turned on because she reminds me of my goddamned, sorry-ass mother, I jerk away from her.
Her naked body quivers and she clenches her eyes closed. Fucking pathetic. With a frustrated growl, I snatch up all of her clothes and storm toward the door.
“Shower. Sleep. And I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry but until I can trust you, I have to do this.”
She pops her eyes open and her mouth forms a tiny “O.” As I close the bedroom door, the last thing I see isn’t fear on her face like I expected. Not horror at being locked away in the tower of some monster’s castle. No.
I see absolute devastation.
Sadness beyond anything I’ve ever seen.
Sorrow that threatens to rip her soul apart right in front of me.
I hate the look.
Slamming the door shut and locking it from the outside, I heave with irritated breaths. This toy has been nothing but trouble. She’s broken and unfixable I’m afraid. I had to go off and get a defective toy.
I’m too goddamned rich to be bothered with this shit.
I deserve the best.
Not broken, sad, messed up shit that doesn’t make sense in my head.
And yet . . .
I don’t want to return her. I don’t want to get rid of her yet. I don’t want to give up on her.
I want to restore her.
I want to fix my sad little toy.
Then a dark thought enters my head—one that has never even entered my mind in all the years I’ve been collecting and playing with my toys.
I want to know why she’s broken.