Page 37 of Seth’s Doll

I circle back to where I began, pick up the silver spring hook off the floor that’s attached to the strap leading to her left leg, and walk with it to the head of the playtable with a mischievous smirk taking over my entire face—as if it’s a leash and her lush thigh is a pet being led somewhere to do something naughty.

Up until this moment, her legs have remained only slightly bent, just enough for me to encircle her limbs with the nylon cuffs. Now though, after squatting to take hold of her right leg’s strap I tossed within reach a few seconds ago, I move back enough that I can watch with wicked delight as I begin to pull both ends toward me. With the straps together, hand over hand, I tug her legs up and back slowly, watching as her chest starts to move up and down with each breath getting deeper and faster. The farther I pull her legs back, the wider her bent knees spread apart, and I keep going until the stripes at the top of her high socks are at her armpits.

She whimpers at the utterly vulnerable position she’s now in, and when I stand, my hand holding the straps down low to keep her where I want her, I lean over to ask in her ear, “Color?”

And for the first time tonight, she doesn’t answer.

I move to look down into her face from above, asking again, “Color, doll?”

But again, no answer.

Her eyes are closed tightly, her breaths still coming quick and heavy, and before tonight, I would’ve immediately unhooked her wrists, headed to the other end of the playtable, unstrapped the Velcro from around her thighs, then pulled her into the safe cocoon of my arms. The scene would’ve ended right then, my painfully erect cock be damned. Not even the threat of a severe case of blue balls would’ve allowed me to continue playing with my sweet little doll while her fear instinct had her frozen.

But now, even with the loving and homicidally protective husband part of me raging just beneath the surface, it’s the words in the birthday card she gave me tonight that are loudest in my mind. And it’s my submissive’s voice I hear them in.

I trust you with my body, mind, and soul even more than I trust my own instincts.

I trust you to push me past where my mind and fears tell me to stop.

I trust you to take my body’s natural reaction to freeze the same way you would if a submissive called Yellow, not Red—pause to check in, assess what’s going on, and then continue the way you see fit.

I trust in your judgement, to move past that boundary without going too far, but also to take me far enough I’ll learn to conquer my mind’s control over my body.

I want to be brave.

Decision made, I quickly attach the spring hooks to the metal loop beneath the table and adjust the straps so that they’re taut.

I stand back up to my full height, fill my hand with oil that I heat up between my palms, then calmly, I reach over her to place one right in the center of her chest. I stare down into her face, her expression pained, but I know this position isn’t physically hurting her. I could tell by the ease in which I pulled her legs back that her muscles aren’t strained and her joints aren’t aching. It’s purely mental, or possibly partly emotional. This position is one of the most vulnerable, her most intimate parts not only totally exposed but spread open, and her hands being bound above her head means she has absolutely no way of covering herself. She’s completely at my mercy.

“Doll, look at me,” I order, my hand moving up and down from the power behind each of her breaths. When she doesn’t do as I command, I get close to her ear and lower my voice to a purr. If she wants to be able to hear what I say, she’ll have to take control of her breathing. It’s the technique I’ve always used when she’s frozen in fear, only it’s the first time she’s not swaddled in my lap with my entire body acting as the blanket.

“Breathe, my pretty toy. You’re safe with me. Come out of your head and feel my hand on your heart. It’s only me—the man you’ve entrusted to bring you pleasure. You know I’d never do anything to truly hurt you.”

I see, hear, and feel her take a purposefully deeper breath before it stutters on its way back out.

“That’s my strong girl. My brave little doll. Look at you. You make your Dom so fucking proud, my perfect sub. Do it again for me. Deep and slow,” I murmur, and she does, this breath not as choppy on the exhale. “Good girl.”

But as proud as I am that she’s gaining control over this moment of fear, I don’t want her to slip all the way back into the completely surrendered state she was in before quite yet. I needed her responsive now for what I have planned for the rest of our scene.

So instead of continuing to lull her with soft praise, I stand back up as she keeps working on smoothing out her breaths and move my hand from the center of her chest to massage her breast. I reach the other one farther down her body to rub up and down the inside of one lifted thigh, then switch and continue on with the relaxing but arousing manipulation.

When her breathing is back to normal, I look up to see her right foot make a circle in the air. A sign of discomfort she might not even realize she made. Without a word, I head to the opposite end of the table, my nostrils flaring as I force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of the incredible sight before me.

I undo the buckle of one chunky-heeled Mary Jane, then slip it off her pink-sock-covered foot, hearing her sigh. And it’s no wonder—the shoe is heavy as shit. The pressure on her ankles with them weighing her feet down as they were forced to hover in the air would definitely be uncomfortable. I undo the other shoe, watching her face this time as I reverse the infamous Cinderella moment, yet her expression shows the same as the princess’s when her foot slipped into her perfect-fitting glass slipper.

Pure relief.

“Better, pretty dolly?”

“Yes, Master,” she says on an exhale, rolling her feet, and her ankles crack loudly.

I quirk an eyebrow as I watch for what I know is coming, smiling to myself when I see the blush steal across her cheeks.

Fuck, I love her.

I carry the heavy-ass shoes over to the trunk and set them on the floor in front of it, then return to the foot of the table. And I finally allow myself to take in the fantasy come to life that’s bound before me.

Bent legs open wide and all the way back so that her knees reach the outer sides of her breasts, the position is in stark contrast to the implied innocence of the pink socks that stretch from her pointed toes to where they now stop just above the bend. And farther up, the added visual of her arms stretched high above her head, bound together by black leather cuffs around those fragile little wrists…