The House of the Stone

I don’t know what to do. The only man I’ve ever been naked in front of is Dr. Steele, and at least then I had a robe and it was only for a few seconds.

My hands shake as I pull the tunic over my head. The cool air sends a flurry of goose bumps across my stomach. I force myself not to look at Emile as I step into the shower. The water runs through my hair, down my shoulders and back, over my breasts and waist and thighs and knees down to my feet, a constant reminder that every inch of me is exposed. I don’t know how to be brave like this. I face away from Emile because it’s the only way to protect myself, but I am naked in every way, because this is private and he should not be here watching me. I feel violated, like my skin has been opened up and my insides are laid bare for all to see.

I can’t enjoy the heat of the water or the scent of the soap. I just want this to be over.

As soon as my hair is rinsed, the shower turns off and Emile appears in front of me holding a towel. I wrap it around myself as tight as I can, tighter than it should be, so that it’s almost hard to breathe. My legs tremble as I step out of the tiny tub. He has a smaller towel that he rubs my head with until my hair is reasonably dry. Then he hands me the dress. It’s similar to the one I wore at the Auction, but not nearly as costumelike. The material is silky and it fits my body as if it were made for me.

I’m just grateful to be wearing clothes again. My breathing slows. The muscles in my shoulders relax a fraction.

“Time for hair and makeup,” Emile says, beckoning me to follow him.

It takes forever to get me ready because, like in the prep room, I’m just not very good at sitting still. At least Emile doesn’t threaten to tie me to the chair like my prep artist did. And he doesn’t make me look like some sort of carnival creature. His touch is quite light, gold on my eyes, a pink flush to my lips, and it’s really not so bad just sitting in this opulent room. By the end of the session I finally feel recovered from that horrible shower. When I see my reflection I grudgingly have to admit that I look pretty good.

“Done,” he says. I sigh with relief just as the door opens.

All my muscles tense back up as Frederic enters the room. He is carrying what looks like a long silver necklace in one hand and a piece of black ribbon in the other.

“Is it ready?” he asks.

Emile simply bows low and extends one hand in my direction. Frederic sniffs.

“It will suffice,” he says.

He moves forward, like he’s examining me closer. Then in one swift motion, he’s fastened a collar around my neck.

“What—” I pull at the collar as Frederic hands a thin chain to Emile.

“Hold it tight,” he says.

I’m on a leash.

“No!” I cry. I scratch at the metal around my neck, yanking hard as my nails cut into my skin.

“I said hold it tight, Emile,” Frederic snaps and suddenly my neck is jerked backward and I can’t breathe. In the same moment, I feel something cold lock around one wrist, then the other. The pressure on my neck disappears and I gasp for air. My hands are shackled with probably the most artfully crafted handcuffs in the world. Engraved silver fish swim in a sea of sapphires.

“Are you going to be a good girl now?” Frederic says. His repulsive beaked nose is only inches from mine.

I’m not anyone’s good girl. Least of all his.

I spit in his face.

He chuckles and takes a handkerchief out of the pocket of his dress to wipe it off. “If I didn’t know better,” he says, “I’d think you enjoy being punished.”

There is something lecherous in his tone, something that makes me feel more naked than showering in front of Emile.

He holds his hand out and Emile takes the black ribbon from him. The last thing I see before it loops around my head, covering my eyes, is Frederic fingering the delicate leash.

Then my sight is gone. There is a sharp tug on my neck.

“Let’s get going,” Frederic says. “We don’t want to be late.”