I did not open my eyes. I could not. If I looked at him, it would be finished—the shop, the house, my mother asleep with no idea where I was.
His breath was close enough to feel on my cheek. His palm stayed on the vinyl beside my face, heavy, unmoving, and I waited for the next sound to be the cuff ripping open or his voice going sharp the way it never did at home.
Nothing happened.
My pulse was so loud I was sure he could see it in my throat. The place where his fingers had been still throbbed, wet and stupid, and I hated that my body had not gotten the message that we were caught.
I tried to keep my breathing shallow. I tried to be silicone again. I tried to take the sound back, but there was no taking it back.
The fridge in the front of the shop kicked on. Somewhere, a pipe ticked. He still had not moved.
I thought about the drive home. I thought about Mom’s face. I thought about the kind man who made me coffee after we fought, and how there would be no version of that left if he yanked my head up and made me look at him.
Then he laughed.
It was only a breath at first, shaky, almost disbelieving, and his thumb brushed my lower lip the way he checked a seam.
“Fucking hell. They even got the twitch.” He sounded almost proud. “Too real. That was the note I sent. Make her react when you hit the right place.”
I almost sighed out loud in relief.
The room came back in pieces. The lamp. The vinyl under my cheek. The fridge in the front of the shop. He thought the sound I had not meant to make was a feature. He thought my name in his mouth was still inventory.
His fingers slid between my legs again, slower now, like a man who... who had permission from a box.
“Alright,” he murmured against my hair. “Let’s see what else they fixed.”
I kept my eyes closed and let him. Shame and relief sat in the same place in my chest. I had almost ended a marriage with one stupid noise, and he had filed it under product improvement. I should have been grateful. I was wetter instead.
He talked while he worked, and he talked like the shop, not like our kitchen.
“Temperature’s stable. No cold patch at the hip. Skin takes a mark and gives it back.” His free hand spread over my ass, squeezed, released, and he watched the color come. “That’s a complaint waiting to happen and a selling point anyway. Clients want to see it remember them.”
Every word landed on me as if he had said you. You take a mark. You remember him. You are better than the last one.
“Open your knees another inch,” he said, mild and professional. “The note said full articulation. I want to see if they lied.”
I did it before I could decide not to. The straps allowed just enough. He made a low sound of approval and pushed his fingers deeper, curling until my stomach pulled tight.
“Good. Responsive. No lag.” He pressed that same spot again, patiently. “Hold still when I do that. Don’t lock the hips.”
I held still. My body listened to him the way it had always listened to him in the back room, when he told me to drink the coffee and sit until I could breathe. This was the same voice with a dirtier job. I followed it and hated how easy that was.
He drew his fingers out and ran the wetness up my spine, then back down, as if he were finishing a polish.
“Mouth next,” he said. “They promised it opens.”
I heard the rustle of his belt, and my pulse quickened.
The same thick, veined cock I had watched from the doorway last night landed against my cheek, hot and heavy, already slick at the head.
He caught my jaw and turned my face on the vinyl. His thumb pressed my lower lip down.
“Open when I press. Not before. Don’t bite. If they built the teeth wrong, I’ll feel it.”
He pressed in, and I opened for him.
The head of him pushed into my mouth, and my jaw had nowhere to go. The smell of the shop mingled with the cologne my mother bought him—the one she never got close enough to enjoy.
He did not ask if I could take it. He fed himself in as if the shipment note had promised a working human throat.
“There. That’s it.”
I kept my eyes shut. Vinyl stuck to my cheek. The cuff chains ticked when my wrists jumped.
He gave me an inch of his dick, then another, and my throat fluttered around him.
A doll would not swallow. But I swallowed because I had to breathe, and the sound was messy.
He hissed.
“Fuck yeah!” he murmured, his hand staying in my hair, setting a pace. “When I pull back, close your mouth a little.”
I did what he said. I did not mean it as obedience. My tongue found the vein on the underside because he had told me soft, and his hips jerked.
“Easy. You’re not going to last if you pull like that.”
He started using my mouth in earnest. Short strokes, then longer ones. The wet sound filled the studio. Every time he pushed deep, my nose brushed the hair at the base of him, and my eyes burned.
I gagged once, and he cursed like he had been handed a better tool than he had paid for.
“Shit. That’s indeed her mouth,” he said, and my name was in it whether he used it or not. “I sent the pictures. They finally listened.”
I heard, they got you right. I heard, this is what I wanted. I dripped down my own thighs, and the air was cool on the mess his fingers had already made.
My nipples ached against the stolen gray tank. I thought about that same thick head notching lower. I thought about a first stretch on this vinyl while he still called me a unit.
He thrust deeper and held. I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed around him, and he made a sound I had never heard in our house.
“Easy. Breathe. I’ve got you.”
I breathed through my nose.
He pulled back far enough for me to drag air. A string of spit connected my lip to him. He wiped it with his thumb like he was checking a finish, then pushed in again and used my mouth until my jaw shook.
When he stopped, it was sudden. He pulled free, and I gasped against the vinyl, chin wet, mouth still open because he had not told me to close it.
“Not like that,” he said. “I’m not finishing in the display.”
He moved behind me, and both of his hands settled on my hips. The hot length of him slid through the slick between my legs, up and down, missing on purpose, until the head caught at my entrance and stayed there.
He was too big. My body tried to flinch, and the ankle straps said no. I was open for him, shaking, and still trying to be something that did not want.
He did not push.
He only rested there, thick against me, and I felt every pulse of him just like a threat I had asked for. I had waited on this vinyl for that exact pressure. I had watched it disappear into silicone last night and told myself I could take it.
Now it was right there, and he would not give it to me, and the wanting turned sharp enough to hurt.
“Hold still,” he said, close to my spine. “I’m checking the fit.”
I held still. I hated how well I did it.
He dragged his heavy weight against me again. He pushed in just a fraction—enough to stretch the tight ache—then pulled back completely. The slow friction sparked a sharp heat. He did it again, letting the blunt pressure slide right past the exact spot I needed him, hovering there, refusing to finish the motion.
A whine built in my throat. I swallowed it down. The vinyl squeaked as my hips bucked to chase him, but the thick cuffs slammed my knees back into place. My hands were useless in the straps. I could not reach back. I could not force him inside. I was entirely pinned, shaking under him.
Then, he stopped moving entirely. He rested against my wet skin, perfectly still.
My control snapped.
“Please…”
Oh god!
I bit it off.
No, no... dolls did not beg.
Whatever he had been about to do stopped as if someone had cut the current.
His whole body locked, his breath catching against my skin, the heat of him there and then suddenly going nowhere.
Then he laughed.
His mouth came to my ear, so quiet and certain. “Oh sweetheart…Don't you want to know why I let you come back in here after I caught someone at that door last night?”
My eyes flew open.
Fuckkk!