Pretty Stolen Dolls by Ker Dukey, K Webster Page B

kissing me in an almost reverent way that confuses me. I’m so caught up in his kisses, I don’t realize he’s also massaging just above where he’s inside me. Curls of pleasure begin to build again and the pain of him within me subsides.
    And I need…
    I lie there, my hands fisted at my sides, but as he makes me feel good again, the urge to touch him takes over.
    Contact. Connection.
    My fingers skitter up his sculpted shoulders as a fantasy begins playing in my mind.
    That he loves us now.
    He’ll be kind.
    He’ll let us go.
    He’s changing. This will all be over soon.
    The thought is fleeting. He will never let his dolls go.
    His lips find mine again and he kisses me with an emotion I feel down to my very being. He believes this is love. That this is real.
    It’s not.
    But if I play along, maybe he’ll take me out of my cell.
    I could see Macy…
    We could get away.
    I slide my fingers into his hair and kiss him back with a fervor I didn’t know I possessed. He bucks into me and it hurts, but if I let him believe he’s claiming me down to a cellular level, then maybe he really will fall and want to be with me outside these walls. His body consumes mine and I get lost in the role I’m playing.
    The pleasure overrules the pain, distracting me to the point that I’m a willing participant, pretend or not.
    My fingers grip at his long, curly hair and I spread my legs as far apart as they’ll go.
    He drives into me powerfully—reminding me once again he’s a man and I’m just his doll. But the way he whispers kisses over my lips as though I am precious to him makes me think I’m succeeding in making him love me for real. Perhaps I’m growing powerful too. Do breasts and body hair and periods play tricks on men? Am I turning into his woman in his eyes?
    “Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he grunts, nipping at my lip, biting down and drawing blood. It’s his way of being playful, loving even. He likes to paint my lips red with blood.
    The sound of his skin slapping mine makes my flesh heat. A building within me starts pulsing like before, but more powerful. I need the sensation again like I need to breathe. “Do you love me?”
    His words startle me, but his fingers never stop moving between my legs. He never slows his thrusting. Those lips I hate never stop kissing me.
    No!
    “Y-Yes,” I stammer.
    I hate you!
    He groans. “I’m going to come.”
    That means he’ll be finished soon. I’m trying to plan my escape when pleasure sears through me once again—hot, white, wicked. It triggers a response within him too. His penis seems to double in size, then a rush of hot liquid pours into me.
    My body is mush. I’m nothing but a rag doll—his rag doll.
    He slips out of me and the heat runs down my butt crack to the mattress below me. I lie there unmoving as he shuffles about. I’ve dazed out for who knows how long and don’t come to until I feel a warm, wet cloth between my legs.
    “You’re so dirty, little doll.”
    For once, his words don’t make me shudder. I let him cleanse me and don’t fight him. My mind is scrambled and confused, but it’s the first time he’s come into my cell where I’ve felt like I had some power back.
    It’s the first time he’s done anything nice.
    What if he does these things to Macy?
    The thought seizes my lungs and I choke out my words. “D-Do you do this with my sister?”
    His chuckle is warm in the dark room. It doesn’t chill me like usual. It creates an inner burning that didn’t exist before.
    “Do you want me to?”
    No. Please…no.
    I shake my head hard.
    His hand grips my chin and his gaze delves into my own, hunting past the layers of defense to get to the vulnerability beneath.
    “Just you, dirty little doll,” he assures me. “It’s just you.”

    The memory of Benny is too fresh. My heart pounds in my chest and it’s almost as if I can still feel the disgusting throb he used to evoke from me between my thighs. Benny fucked me up in the head and