Docile Read online

  Elisha’s fingers tangle in the base of my hair. His legs tremble around my waist. I leverage them back onto my shoulders, pull out, and push in. We both moan. I’m beyond ready to come, but I want him to, first. He needs to know I’ll continue until I’m sated, even if he’s finished.

  I’m hard and fast with my thrusts and my hand. His limbs slip against me as a sheen of sweat coats us. My lips touch down on every freckle, then find his neck. I swirl my tongue over his pulse and latch on, sucking at the pliant skin.

  Elisha’s moans and cries blur together as pleasure consumes us. The harder he grips me, the closer I know he is. I hope. I can’t hold on much longer.

  His back arches, head tips back, eyes close, mouth widens. I bury myself in him, grinding against his sensitive hole. His nails dig into my neck. I massage the head of his cock.

  Elisha comes, convulsing and screaming against me. I barely hold my orgasm back as he flexes around me. He presses his forehead against mine, and I wait until he comes down from the high. He wriggles, as if we’re finished and he wants me to dismount, but I hold him in place.

  He’s done with me, but I’m not done with him.

  8

  ELISHA

  I want Alex out of me. When he was touching and kissing me, I forgot the discomfort. But now the stretch and fullness feels like I’m sitting on a baseball bat.

  Something changes in Alex when he starts thrusting again. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t touch me. I might as well not be here.

  His forehead scrunches up as his eyes screw shut. I realize, when Alex moans, this is the first time since we’ve met that he’s not thinking of anyone else.

  “You feel so good. So good,” mumbles Alex. The man who only speaks in full, explicit instructions.

  I wrap my arms and legs back around him. He did take his time with me. Time I’m sure Dociles like Opal didn’t have, their Patrons too busy fucking to think about their “happy pills.” Dutch probably plunged right in while she still had her skirt on.

  Alex waited.

  The part of me still high from orgasm wants to kiss him. I remind myself we are not lovers, that I shouldn’t give more than required. My uncertain lips brush his neck. He shudders at my touch. Orgasm seizes his body, smashing it against mine. I try to relax—it hurts less when I do. Alex falls against me, panting, exhausted. I almost want to hold him.

  We don’t lie together. He pulls his softening cock carefully from me. I yelp in surprise at the pop on its way out. A thin string of come attaches us.

  Alex reaches over me, getting something from the nightstand. I don’t trust anything that comes out of there, after tonight. A shiny metal object fits in his hand.

  “Bend your knees.” He upends the bottle of lube and squirts a glob onto the object. He’s going to put it inside me.

  I clear my throat, stare at the ceiling, and pretend I’m at the doctor’s office. I gasp when Alex pushes it past the tight ring of muscle. It’s cold, but otherwise slips right into the space he’s left empty. I can’t help but squirm around it, like I’m wiggling into tight clothes.

  My body swallows it. I shoot up in a panic, but Alex rests a reassuring hand on my shoulder.

  “Lie back down,” he says. “It’s supposed to do that. There’s a handle down here.” He wiggles the thin strip of metal that now sticks out of me. “This is called an anal plug.” Alex presses the pad of his finger against the base. “Do not try to remove it; you’ll only hurt yourself. I’ve locked it for the night.”

  “I won’t,” I say, though my immediate instinct is to touch the protrusion.

  “It shouldn’t be uncomfortable.” He holds out a hand, which I take, and helps me onto my feet. Then, like we’re lovers again, he pulls me so close I can barely balance. “It should feel good.” He looks almost hopeful, like he’s trying to make me happy.

  I clench around the plug and bask in the momentary pleasure that ripples through me. Alex watches for the reaction on my face. I force a smile and say, “It does.” Which, I guess, is true.

  Alex doesn’t look like he believes me though. “Come on,” he says, his voice not as commanding as earlier. Low, airy. Tired. I realize I’ve thought of Alex as superhuman—no rest, nourishment, or emotions required. “It’s been a long day.”

  I’m not sure whether I like thinking of Alex as a whole person. What if he’s not such a bad guy? Even if I want to, I can’t possibly go a lifetime without getting to know him, without smiling at one of his comments or laughing at one of his jokes. Whether or not I want to, there will be a point in the future where I feel like I’m having a good time with him, even if only for a few minutes. Maybe I should’ve signed with someone it’d be easier to hate.

  Inside the bathroom, Alex turns on all ten shower heads with a single touch. On the community farm, we have the opposite ratio of shower heads to people. And, like that, my irritation returns.

  He points out soaps and shampoos. Alex has more products than the ODR. Good thing the bottles are labeled; I’ll never remember them all. We don’t talk while we wash. He does catch my eye every so often. I can’t help it; his body is like nothing I’ve ever seen, and I can’t just switch my libido off.

  I rinse Alex’s volcanic ash–infused conditioner from my hair, close my eyes, and let the water drip down my face. His arm wraps around the front of my body and he casually fondles my cock.

  “Oh, and uh,” he says, as if he’s just remembered something.

  I try not to pay attention, but between Alex and the plug, I’m aroused again and I don’t want to be.

  “You are not to touch yourself without my permission.”

  I brace myself against the shower wall as he picks up speed. “Okay,” I breathe out, barely audible over the water pressure. My hips jerk forward on their own to meet Alex’s rhythm.

  Then, just when I’ve given in, he’s gone. The water shuts down, leaving me hard and alone. My mouth hangs open as I stare at my erection. Can’t touch my hair; can’t touch my cock. Why do I even have hands?

  Alex dries off with a black towel that looks like a whole sheep’s worth of fluff. I barely stifle the words to ask for more—beg him to finish.

  Beg him to finish? What the fuck is wrong with me? I can’t think that. He just raped me.

  Did he? I tricked my parents into signing their debt over to me. Bought a fake ID. Registered with the ODR. Even aspired to sign with a trillionaire. I chose Alex, knowing we would have sex. I signed a fucking consent form.

  But what else could I have done? Let my family get arrested? Watch Dad sell my thirteen-year-old sister into this? She could easily have ended up with someone like Dutch, and then who could blame her for taking Dociline—for risking ending up like Mom?

  No, this is better. The farm is paid off. They’re eating well, maybe even making a surplus. Abby can save money for the University of Maryland.

  “Elisha.” Alex’s voice ropes me back into my present. Back to his ten-head shower in his Baltimore City penthouse.

  My dick’s softened. Alex doesn’t touch it anymore. He leads the way back into the bedroom and motions to the side of his bed.

  “Do you remember how to open it?” he asks.

  “Yes.” I wave my hand by the corner, like Alex did, and out glides the trundle bed—my bed. It fits right inside Alex’s bed, just like I fit right inside Alex’s life.

  “The alarm will go off at seven a.m.,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’ll go over your daily schedule and revisit today’s mishaps.”

  “Okay,” I say. We’re both standing around my little bed, like he might read me a fairy tale and kiss me on the cheek.

  “Get some sleep.” Alex watches me lie down.

  I feel like I’m settling into a grave—one with sheets as soft as clouds against my skin.

  “City sounds,” Alex says—not to me. I wouldn’t know what that means.

  I find out as the soft sounds of cars and conversation bleed through the room. A horn blares like it’s a mile away, but it
’s only a recording. Between that and the plug, my senses are too overwhelmed to fall asleep. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, forcing myself not to glance at Alex’s curled-up body. At the rise and fall of his chest, the damp tangle of his hair, and slight part of his lips. And I feel so, so alone.

  9

  ELISHA

  If I slept, I can’t remember. Birds twitter amidst Alex’s city sounds. The room is warm, the sheets slippery soft. I’ve never been so comfortable and yet, as much as I shift, I can’t forget the metal plug inside me.

  I’m horny. Nothing special, just morning. But since I’m not allowed to touch myself, it takes over my whole brain.

  A loud honk startles me. I sit up. Beside me, Alex is already rolling out of bed. He slept naked, too, I see, as he silences the alarm. I haven’t even been here for twenty-four hours. Already time drags like the beginning of a long, humid day of work.

  My face musters up some color when Alex reaches between my legs and unlocks the plug with his fingerprint. “Go use the bathroom, if you need. There’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet for you. Clean the plug off and place it in the stainless-steel container beside the sink. It’s a sterilizer. Any time we finish with a toy, place it there.”

  “Okay.”

  He doesn’t follow me as I carry out his instructions. I’m glad. My face contorts as I remove the plug. I almost drop it; it’s covered in Alex’s come, from last night. It’s like he’s inside me all over again.

  As I wash the fluids from my body, my stomach rolls. I barely make it to the toilet before I hurl. Not much comes up. All I’ve eaten in the past twenty-four hours is the two crab balls Alex fed me. I flush them down what I’m sure is a ten-thousand-dollar toilet. Can’t believe it isn’t made of gold.

  Well—I open the cabinet and find a perfectly ordinary toothbrush, identical to Alex’s—I can believe it. If there were diamonds and jewels and imported fabrics everywhere, it would be easier to hate this place. I’m probably the most expensive thing here.

  The door opens without warning. “Almost finished?” Alex grabs his own toothbrush and joins me. I can’t look in the mirror. The reflection of us brushing our teeth side by side, naked, is too ridiculous.

  I spit. “Finished.”

  “Good.” Alex rinses his mouth. “I need to measure your wrist.” He pulls a tape measure out of a drawer full of pins and clips and cologne bottles.

  “What for?”

  Alex holds my left arm out like he’s selecting a cut of meat, then wraps the tape measure comfortably around my wrist, above the bone. “Don’t ask superfluous questions. If I want you to know something, I’ll tell you.”

  “Sorry, but what does ‘superfluous’ mean?”

  “Unnecessary.”

  “Okay.” Alex and I have different ideas about what’s necessary.

  “File that rule under ‘don’t speak unless spoken to’ and ‘suppress your curiosity.’” Alex speaks the measurement out loud, though it doesn’t appear to be for my benefit. “Since you’ve declined Dociline—”

  Refused, I correct him in my head. I refused Dociline.

  “—we’ll be having a discussion about the rules, later.”

  I doubt Alex means “discussion,” but I don’t fight him on it, since I’ve already fucked up by asking him a “superfluous” question.

  “I’ll also be providing you a full schedule.” Alex acts differently, this morning. He moves with intention and sounds surer of himself. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday, you’ll work with a personal trainer in the gym downstairs from six a.m. to seven a.m. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, you’ll go for a run during the same hour. I’m not going with you—I have an errand to run—but I want to show you your route, today.”

  “Okay.” I haven’t exercised for its own sake in years. The act feels indulgent.

  “I laid clothes out for you. Get dressed, make your bed, and tuck it back into place.”

  I don’t even have time to respond. Alex goes through the rest of his morning routine completely oblivious to my presence. We dress side by side as if we’re strangers in one of those boutique dressing rooms.

  He watches me make my bed, then fixes a corner, and shows me how he prefers it. I try again on his bed with only a wrinkle or two at fault.

  “Good.” He examines my work while I fix it. “You’ll make them both every morning, yours before you work out, mine after you return.”

  I’ve been making beds for years; this is the easy stuff. “Okay.”

  “Ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  I follow him to the elevator and we ride silently down to the lobby. My neon running shoes clash with the preppy colors that decorate the building. Alex complements it in jade-green corduroy pants and a thick wool cardigan that matches the gray horses embroidered on the pants. Even after last night, I still can’t believe trillionaires really wear this stuff on a daily basis.

  “Morning, Dr. Bishop!” The doorman waves.

  “Morning, Tom.” Alex smiles and stops.

  I do the same, minus the smile.

  “How’s the family?”

  I fail to hide my surprise. Alex cares about his doorman’s family? Has to be an act. Trillionaires don’t care about anyone beneath them. Not debtors and not doormen.

  “Good!” says Tom. “Wendy’s graduating this spring. Looks like she’s going to pull a four-point-oh.”

  “Congratulations.” Alex pats him on the back. “Has she applied to the University of Maryland?”

  “Yes, but…” Tom wavers despite his smile. “We’ll see.”

  He can’t afford it. Not all the folks who work in the city are rich; trillionaires need people to drive them and groom them and sell them overpriced clothes

  “We’ll talk.” Alex motions between the two of them. “I’m heading out for a bit.”

  “Yes, I see.” For the first time, Tom looks at me—at my eyes, like there’s a person inside this body. “Who’s this?”

  “Introduce yourself,” Alex says, as if I’m six and need manners handed to me. I would have, immediately, if I thought I were allowed to speak.

  “I’m Elisha.” Tom takes my hand when I extend it. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You too, young man,” Tom says, though he can’t be older than fifty. Lines barely crease his dark brown skin and his hair is only beginning to recede.

  “Elisha is my new Docile.” Alex clears the confusion on the doorman’s face.

  “Oh. You know, I couldn’t tell. He’s very natural,” Tom says, suddenly forgetting I’m standing in front of him. Just a second ago we shook hands like equals.

  “Thank you,” Alex says.

  I can’t decide whose comment embarrasses me more.

  “He doesn’t have that look.” Tom motions to his own face. “That plastic look.”

  Alex clears his throat. His smile falters. “Elisha’s not on Dociline.”

  “He’s not, huh.” Tom sounds intrigued. “Do you plan to go on Dociline, Elisha?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Call me Tom.”

  I look to Alex for approval. He nods.

  “No, Tom. I don’t plan to take Dociline.”

  “Must be a short term, then.”

  “No,” I say.

  “Elisha and I signed a life term contract,” Alex adds, because I can’t bring myself to say the words.

  “Interesting.” He pauses. “Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around then, Elisha. Dr. Bishop.” Tom nods and returns to his desk. “Enjoy your morning.”

  “Thanks, you too,” says Alex.

  Tom nods when I pass. His black eyes draw me in like a magnet. Whether that’s good or bad, I don’t have time to worry. I shiver, shaking off my unease, and follow Alex across the street toward the pier.

  “Stretch, first,” he says. “Then you’ll follow this route around the harbor. Look.” He points at the painted path along the road, flagged by signs with stick figures walking or riding bikes.

  “And you want me to
go alone?” I confirm, suspicious of his intentions.

  “Yes.”

  “Every time?”

  “Are you planning to run away?” he asks to make a point.

  “No.”

  “Then yes.” Alex squares with me. “Every time.” We hold silent eye contact for a moment before he continues, as if it had never come up. “I want you active the entire hour, but I don’t expect you’ll be able to run for that long, at first. Once you tire, walk. If you feel like you can resume, do. I’ve linked your microchip to a program that will track your progress, so you can check when you get home.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll see you back in an hour.” Alex consults his watch, then walks back toward his building. I watch as he chats with Tom the doorman, again, before getting into a black car.

  For several minutes, I stand absolutely still. It feels worse being trusted than being forced. That this trillionaire knows I have no other choice, that my family so desperately needs his one thousand dollars per month that I will do anything he tells me. That I won’t fight. That I’ll take his friends’ lewd comments, let Alex do whatever he wants to my body, run laps around the harbor, and go back to him for more, every time, without restraints or guards or locks. Because, inside, I’m churning with anger and fear and want. But outside? I’m still. Trustworthy. Docile.

  I could run, but I choose not to. I choose to obey the trillionaire who could probably buy my entire community out of debt with a month of his salary. I choose to be complicit in the system that fucked my family into three million dollars of debt and my mother into a permanent docile state.

  I stretch against one of the path signs while city folks stroll past in wool sweaters, embroidered pants, feather-stuffed vests, and colorful scarves that circle their necks like collars. When I run, it’s like I’m in a zoo, though whether I’m the attraction or visitor I’m undecided.

  The path goes against traffic, winding around a long stretch of shops and restaurants along the water. A barge leaving the harbor boasts a glass-enclosed tennis court along the roof, in which two older men hit a glowing green ball back and forth. One whacks it past the glass and the ball bursts into hundreds of little pieces.