Christine had just finished scrubbing the lines off her body, careful not to stretch her back too much. Those things were still sore, especially after he decided to redo them. She had her hair pulled up after she washed it. Her jewelry had been carefully put back in it's boxes. She heard him call her name and after slipping into one of the only nightgowns she had that exposed her back, she quietly padded to him.
"Yes?" she asked quietly, feeling exposed in the sheerness of the gown and his gaze. Christine had to look down at the floor, suppressing a shiver at the chill in the air.
"I'm in need of your services. Follow me." Said Leonard plaintively. He turned on his heel, making his way back towards the tiny room, the slightly inklings of a smile playing upon his lips as he tread past a seemingly innocuous study, medical texts open on the desk and various samples in vials, some masculine decor over the walls. But his favorite part of this house was the transition between reality and fantasy, even the floor to his private room and life was strewn with glitter and dust from his dolls.
He didn't have to look back to know she was following. If she wasn't, which would be most unwise, she would be in for a great deal of trouble and honestly, Leonard wasn't opposed to that either. It was always fun to show her her place, which was his doll. Not his lover, nor his slave, not his pet and never his companion. His creation, and for this, he loved her if only in the perverted sense of the word.
His tongue swept over his bottom lip, wetting it and turning around to face her in his room.
Christine followed him, though slowly. Her eyes darted to some of the books, ones she had tried to read when he wasn't around. They were fascinating and she wished she could learn more. It kept her sane, kept her remembering she wasn't a living doll.
When he stopped she did, a few feet behind him still. She cant help but look around, wondering what he needs from her. He's a mystery to her and she can't quite say she hates him for what he does, for it's never anything outright mean or unexpected, unless she's being bad. But she hasn't come to terms with how he treats her, either.
He would have hardly cared if she had simply asked to read his books. In fact, he knew she was attempting to educate herself in some way, or to entertain herself. She was his prisoner, but her living conditions were far from poor. He liked to treat his dolls, his little perfect dolls nicely, and since the last one ran out on him, (which was a mistake. She was found, raped and gutted. Pretty nasty, but it was her fault in Leonard's reasoning) his most realistic doll as if she was on the line of reality and fantasy
( ... )
Christine went from raising an eyebrow at his choice of game to frowning, her eyebrows furrowing together. With an exhale of breath she reached down and gripped the bottom of the short gown. For a moment, a split second, she thought about tearing the fabric. It felt very soft, yet was very thin. She knew it was expensive. Everything he put on her was. Her muscles in her arms tensed in anticipation. A finger twitched. With another breath, she removed the gown, careful to not damage the fabric in any way. She did, however drop it to the ground like it was a piece of trash, then rested her hands against her thighs.
She watched him as he sat, waiting for her answer. Her weight shifted from one foot to another just enough to show in her muscles flexing and the slight tilt of her body. Her brain was running at a hundred miles an hour trying to figure out the game this time.
"51," she said calmly, trying to not show her restless mind.
"Fifty-one? Fifty-one fer' Rosewell, fifty-one fer' aliens." Chuckled Leonard, rising to his feet. It was so suiting that Christine would become his little slave girl today, after he had just finished painting one. He motioned for her to sit in the chair, thinking over the best way to do this. If she was an Orion, then he would have sex with her. But he would have her dance first, then sleep with him, but she wouldn't stay.
Oh well, her fault.
He grabbed his airbrushes and changed out the paint, placing in something non-toxic to human skin, because if he was honest with himself, he didn't mind something that rubbed off, didn't mind being covered in paint. He barely paid any notion to her naked body; she was hardly more special than any of his other dolls. Not naked, not clean slated.
He grabbed a jar of ink, and a dip brush and dipped the brush, testing it on paper, a luxury turned common amenity for Leonard, and moved over to her.
"Aliens?" she asked quietly, still confused. Was that...was she was to be? An alien? How fitting for her. Around him, she felt like one. When he took her anywhere, she felt like one. Either an alien or some type of oddity with the way everyone looked at her and tried to touch her.
Sitting down, she tried to school her face in a more impassive state. He'd yell at her otherwise. Something along the lines of not being able to paint over wrinkles and weird bunches of skin. It didn't work and she was forced to bite the inside of her cheek.
Christine watched him as he went through the motions like he did every day. Sometimes, she could guess what was on his mind. Other times, not so much. However, with the new paint color, she had a good idea. She exhaled as he came closer. That paint was always freezing.
And without much thought to her comfort, lines were being traced at the joints of her arms, over her elbows then around the crease. "Y'smear that, an' I'll cut the lines in with a knife." Not that he would, but he may imprint them with a needle. He'd rather not, and his attentions drew to her knees, lines over the caps and then moving down around the underside, fully expecting her not to flinch at the coolness of the ink, or the lightness of the brush
( ... )
The ink was cold, no more cold than water left sitting out, but combine the sensation with a brush and she always fought to not laugh or flinch. Somehow she always managed to do well, after the first few times of either bursting out in giggles or flinching enough that he'd have to redo the lines. Those times he'd punished her and although she didn't have marks to remember, it was another mental scar that never healed properly
( ... )
"Yes?" she asked quietly, feeling exposed in the sheerness of the gown and his gaze. Christine had to look down at the floor, suppressing a shiver at the chill in the air.
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He didn't have to look back to know she was following. If she wasn't, which would be most unwise, she would be in for a great deal of trouble and honestly, Leonard wasn't opposed to that either. It was always fun to show her her place, which was his doll. Not his lover, nor his slave, not his pet and never his companion. His creation, and for this, he loved her if only in the perverted sense of the word.
His tongue swept over his bottom lip, wetting it and turning around to face her in his room.
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When he stopped she did, a few feet behind him still. She cant help but look around, wondering what he needs from her. He's a mystery to her and she can't quite say she hates him for what he does, for it's never anything outright mean or unexpected, unless she's being bad. But she hasn't come to terms with how he treats her, either.
"...Sir?"
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She watched him as he sat, waiting for her answer. Her weight shifted from one foot to another just enough to show in her muscles flexing and the slight tilt of her body. Her brain was running at a hundred miles an hour trying to figure out the game this time.
"51," she said calmly, trying to not show her restless mind.
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Oh well, her fault.
He grabbed his airbrushes and changed out the paint, placing in something non-toxic to human skin, because if he was honest with himself, he didn't mind something that rubbed off, didn't mind being covered in paint. He barely paid any notion to her naked body; she was hardly more special than any of his other dolls. Not naked, not clean slated.
He grabbed a jar of ink, and a dip brush and dipped the brush, testing it on paper, a luxury turned common amenity for Leonard, and moved over to her.
"An' hold still."
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Sitting down, she tried to school her face in a more impassive state. He'd yell at her otherwise. Something along the lines of not being able to paint over wrinkles and weird bunches of skin. It didn't work and she was forced to bite the inside of her cheek.
Christine watched him as he went through the motions like he did every day. Sometimes, she could guess what was on his mind. Other times, not so much. However, with the new paint color, she had a good idea. She exhaled as he came closer. That paint was always freezing.
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