The Dollhouse Society Volume I: Evelyn (Includes Indecent Proposal, Dreams in Black & White, Playing House, Freeze Frame, plus a bonus story!)

THE DOLLHOUSE SOCIETY

Volume I

EVELYN

By

Eden Myles

Copyright © 2012 Eden Myles

Published by Courtesan Press

http://courtesanpress.wordpress.com/

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be distributed, shared, resold, posted online, or reproduced in any electronic or hard copy form.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons or events is entirely coincidental. This book contains adult content and is intended for a mature readership. All sexual scenarios depicted in this book occur between consenting adults over 18 years of age.

Cover art design by Courtesan Press

***

CONTENTS

The Rules of Conduct Inside the Dollhouse

Indecent Proposal

Dreams in Black & White

Playing House

Freeze Frame

Bonus Story: Ten Years Later

***

THE
RULES OF CONDUCT INSIDE THE DOLLHOUSE

(Failure to comply with these rules shall result in immediate expulsion from the Dollhouse.)

-
No gentleman under the
age of thirty
shall be permitted to enter the Dollhouse. Gentlemen desiring permanent membership within the Society shall be subject to a trial period las
ting no less than one
year, after which he will be reviewed fo
r possible permanent inclusion in the Society.

-
A gentleman and his courtesan may do anything they wish, so long as it is consensual, tasteful and entertaining.
Consensual acts of entertainment within the Dollhouse are
hitherto
referred to as “plays”.

-
“P
lays”
between a
gentleman and his court
esan may
not
be interrupted
in any way or
for any reason
by a third party
.
“Play” can only be begun or ended by the parties involved.

-
“Plays” shall be conducted only in a designated playroom of the Dollhouse. The only time this rule shall not apply is for a new courtesan’s debutante party, in which “play” shall be conducted in the
great room
.

-
A gentleman is not permitted to touch, address or otherwise acknowledge another gentleman’s courtesan
while in the Dollhouse
.

-  Proper d
ecorum must be observed at all times.

-
Courtesa
ns shall not be
allowed to imbibe
any kind of alcoholic beverages while in the Dollhouse.

-
Courtesans shall be shown the utmost respect while in the Dollhouse.

-
A new
safe word shall
be issued at eac
h gathering
. When a safe
word is used
by a gentleman or his courtesan
, all
“
play
”
shall immediately cease
between
all
the
parties
involved
.

***

INDECENT PROPOSAL

I had just gotten into work that morning when I found an appointment note glued to the edge of my computer monitor. It read MEETING: IAN STERLING, and under it a date and time. The day was today. The time was two hours from now. I ripped the note off and looked at it in horror, then glanced over at Clarissa, the temp that worked directly across from me.

Clarissa is four inches shorter than me and thirty pounds lighter. She wears a size zero. Suffice to say, I do not. My dress size is in the low double digits. For most of my high school years I’d been surrounded by her type—girls who were slim and petite, with boyish hips and gravity-defying boobs, able to wear anything they wanted right off the department store rack. Their hair was always perfectly blonde, their skin perfectly flawless. When I finally got to college, I found that nothing much had changed. The girls there were perfect too, whereas I remained a giant at six feet even. I wasn’t too surprised to find the secretarial pool was the same way, full to brimming with blonde, perky Clarissas. But Clarissa was also
nice
. Beautiful
and
nice. I couldn’t even hate her in good conscience.

I looked down at the note, then back up at Clarissa. “I think I’m about to be let go,” I said, sounding sadder than I wanted to. As jobs went, working for Sterling Cosmetics (“All natural, organic, animal-cruelty-free ingredients.”) was the best job I’d ever had.

“No way,” Clarissa said, running around the edge of our shared workstation and snatching up the note. There’s nothing like gossip to get the pool jumping on a dreary, rainy Monday morning. “Evie, you’re the best worker here.”

“I have to see Mr. Sterling in two hours. I just know he’s going to can me.”

I was never big on self-confidence, sue me. In grade school I’d been taller than all of the girls and most of the boys. Things just went downhill from there. The other kids used to call me Evie the Beanstalk, or sometimes Lurch because of how big and pale I was. Even the Goths wouldn’t have anything to do with me. I never got angry fast enough, and I was always too afraid to smoke weed with the other “bad kids” in the bathroom. My mom had worked hard to support my brother and I after my dad left us, so I had no reason to rebel. Besides, I was too busy curling up with a good book or a mystery movie on PBS to do those things.

I looked out the rain-lashed windows of the Sterling Building and wished I wasn’t here. I’d rather have been home today, wrapped in my favorite plush, worn-out robe with Betty Boop all over it, hemmed in by my cats and reading Agatha Christie. The thought made me feel immediately guilty. Getting the job at Sterling had been more of a lucky accident than anything else. The temp agency had sent me over for just one day to fill in for a secretary who’d come down with a case of food poisoning. That day a worm got into the computer mainframe and there was a massive crash. Part-time geek that I was, I was able to recover a lot of lost data, and the head of my department, Mr. Wilkins, recommended Mr. Sterling take me on as a regular.

I didn’t even have to do an interview, which was good. I
hated
doing interviews.

“You like working here, Evie, don’t you?” Clarissa said. She still looked concerned, but as she shuffled the huge stack of files we needed to tackle this morning, I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was wondering if she was next.

“It’s okay. I’ll get another job,” I answered to cover up my feelings as I sat down at my station, adjusted the picture of my brother and me on the desk in front of me, pushed away last Friday’s clutter, and booted up my computer. 

Mr. Sterling paid better than the temp agency, so of course I liked the job. It was better than seeing a long procession of dingy, dark, unfamiliar offices on the Lower East Side all the time. And I liked working what we girls called “the pool”. My job was to make certain our client files were up to date and make and confirm appointments for Mr. Sterling’s junior staff. That meant I was on the phone a lot, but that was all right because I didn’t mind talking to people on the phone all day. No one can see you on the phone. You can pretend to be pretty and glamorous and a size zero, and who would know?

“Maybe he’s making you permanent,” Clarissa suggested happily from the seat opposite me. “Maybe you’re worrying for nothing.” Clarissa is a natural optimist just like she’s a natural blonde.

“Yeah,” I agreed, glancing down at the note again. “Maybe you’re right.”

But I doubted it.

***

A few minutes before my interview with Mr. Sterling, I excused myself from my workstation and retreated to the ladies room. I made certain my heavy dark hair was still pinned up in a semblance of a corporate chignon—it had a terrible habit of slipping free every chance it got—and freshened up my lipstick. I wore Tangerine Dreamer, one of Mr. Sterling’s more understated colors. I checked to make certain I hadn’t broken out in hives in the little triangle of bare skin above my blouse. I decided I looked human—pale, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and, of course, absolutely huge, the mutant result of Greek and German genes that had no business mixing together. I didn’t look beautiful, but then, I never did. I hoped I didn’t make a fool of myself. I’d learned to school my face so you couldn’t see what I was thinking most of the time, but the hives always gave me away.

I exited the room and walked down the icy white hallway to the big bank of elevators at the end. I had never been anywhere but on the ground floor of the Sterling Building. Only senior staff members were allowed upstairs. The walls of the Sterling Building are all sterile marble and decorated with black glass plaques with the names and pictures of people I didn’t know on them. I stepped into the elevator and was shushed silently upward to the penthouse suite.
A place of privilege
, I thought.

Mr. Sterling was one of the richest and most successful indie businessmen in the world, regularly grabbing the attention of
Time
,
Newsweek
and the
WSJ
. He had taken the little boutique business that he and his wife had started ten years ago and carried it into the new world arena even in the face of the Great Depression 2.0. These days, Sterling Cosmetics were carried all over the world. I knew most people preferred them over other brands because they were so hypo-allergenic, perfect for folks like myself, sensitive to damn near everything. I’d also heard he had added tinctures to his formulas so they were actually good for your skin, and his products had never been tested on animals. The animal thing had won me over more than anything.

Jesus, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get so nervous, but as the lighted numbers climbed on the panel of the elevator, heading toward the
P
, I started thinking about how much this reminded me of my last dinner date with Shawn, the guy I’d known in college.

He’d taken me out to a very nice Indian restaurant on the outskirts of campus, even bought me flowers—tiger lilies, my favorites. I’d foolishly hoped that meant something. He was my first serious boyfriend, and even though we’d only been dating for three months, I’d been convinced he was
the one
. I imagined him asking me to marry him, and I imagined myself saying yes. I imagined myself
not
turning into The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Well, that night he’d told me about Brie, a girl he knew at work. They’d been seeing each other on and off for the past six months, but of course I hadn’t been bright enough to figure that out. He’d wanted to make Brie jealous, that’s all, but he really liked me, he said, and he wanted us to be friends. I didn’t even have the guts to get angry right then and there. I was too afraid of making a fool of myself in front of everyone in the restaurant. I never got angry until it was too late, and by then, of course, there was nothing I could do about things.

The elevator let me out into a posh white corridor. The walls here had a lot more interesting things than plaques. A series of black-and-white photographs dominated them. I thought at first that they must be pictures of popular celebrities and professional models wearing Sterling Cosmetics, but when I looked closer, I realized the subjects in the photographs didn’t have that “look” that professional models have. A lot of them were of ethnic young women—Chinese, African American, Indian—some nude or mostly nude and wrapped in strips of silken ribbons or clutching huge flowers to their breasts and groins. They looked thoughtful, staring at their feet or out of frame. Not glam shots. Not professional spreads. I’d never seen any of these pictures in the popular magazines.

It was a shame they hadn’t made the final cut. They were beautiful, full of plain-faced but attractive women whose natural feminine allure had been accentuated by Mrs. Sterling’s cosmetics rather than painted over to look like something else. The women looked shy, innocent, and very, very real, unlike so many traditional models.