The Dollhouse by Stacia Stone Page B

was steady.
    The Procurer’s brow knit in confusion as if the words that I was using didn’t make sense when put together. “And what does that have to do with you?”
    Everything! “Nothing, I guess, but I can’t do this anymore.”
    I couldn’t quite put into words the way that I felt, but my emotions were in turmoil. Did he tell his wife about us? While he was whipping me until I nearly passed out and then fingering me into oblivion, was she waiting at home for him none the wiser? Was she meek and unchallenging, a housewife waiting docilely at home? Or was she a dominant career woman that had put her own needs first and pushed him into the Dollhouse?
    There were too many questions without answers, but I couldn’t fight the feeling that I was culpable in some sort of deceit. I wasn’t a cheater and I had never been the other woman. The thought of it made me feel dirty and used.
    And there was some foolish part of me that had hoped for more — that perhaps he would eventually give me something of himself. Those hopes had been shattered like broken glass, and I refused to wallow in the broken pieces.
    I wished that I could be cold about it and think only about the money that I desperately needed. But I wasn’t built to be a mercenary and my heart refused to stay behind the wall I had tried to build around it.
    “If you’re sure.” The Procurer looked at me oddly, like he was seeing something he never had before. I couldn’t be the first Doll to have had enough.
    “I am.”
    “This is your contract.” He placed a stack of papers on the desk.
    “Thank you.” It was bigger than I remembered. I wondered what I must have been thinking in the beginning, to sign myself away so easily and without even taking the time to read the fine print. Not that any of that mattered now.
    The Procurer indicated a shredder in the corner of the room. “Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?”
    Without a word, I picked up the stack and carried it across the room. I flicked the on switch and fed the papers into the rapidly-spinning metal teeth, watching in satisfaction as my Dollhouse contract turned to confetti.
    I ignored the pang of regret that ran through me when the machine stopped. I was really done — no more black sedans pulling up to my house in the middle of the night and no more Procurer turning up at the most inopportune moments.
    No more Julian, whose hands were capable of bringing the most intense pain and amazing pleasure.
    I turned back to face the Procurer, who watched me closely. “Is that all?”
    He steepled his hands underneath his chin. “From this point forward, your association with the Dollhouse is officially terminated. You are forbidden from seeking any contact with any of our members, nor are they with you. You will not transmit information related to the Dollhouse or its membership in any form, written or verbal. Any attempt to violate these terms will result in immediate legal action. Do you understand and agree to comply with this agreement?”
    I wondered what he would do if I refused, lock me up and throw away the key. “Fine.”
    “I wish you well, Ms. Moreno,” he said, voice neutral. “We won’t meet again.”
    I walked out of his office, relief and despair warring for dominance inside of me. I was proud of being strong enough to walk away from something that would only destroy me in the end.
    But walking away meant never seeing him again. I had burned the field of our passion to the ground and salted the earth when I was done for good measure. There was no way to take this decision back.
    What is done cannot be undone.
    My back still burned from the force of the whip and I knew I would carry the bruises for weeks as a reminder of his hands on my skin. But I was stronger than my regret.
    Julian was out of my life forever.

    * * *
    M y life had taken on a dim and detached quality that I wasn’t able to explain to anyone. I spent most of my time in bed, curled up in the covers and