Turn the Key 02 - Wind the Clock

Authors Note: "Wind the Clock" is the second installment in my "Turn the Key" series but may be read as a standalone short story. Part one has already been published on Literotica in the Mind Control section.

CW: Contains themes of hypnosis, CNC, spanking, and doll play. All characters are consenting adults.

"Wind the Clock"

I feel the fibers of the purple carpet crushed against my face before I feel his hands on me, lifting me into his arms and bringing me back to bed. My fingers trace my throat and feel the outline of the tiny key hole in my hollow. Tears pool in my eyes as he lays me against the pillows and I look up into his face. "Shhh," he soothes. "It doesn't hurt does it?"

I take inventory of my body. I'm sore from his use and my belly button aches a bit where the ring has pierced my flesh but oddly, from my throat I feel nothing. It is as if the heart shaped lock has healed completely. I try to take a calming breath.

As he crosses to his side of the bed, I turn away from him and find myself nose to nose with Citrouille who is sitting up on the side of the bed now, his expressive amber colored eyes looking concerned. Normally when I'm injured, my sweet pup tries to sniff the wound, but he makes no move to press his nose against my neck. I stroke his head, and seemingly satisfied, he returns to his pillow in the corner of the room and flops down with an indignant huff. It's long past bedtime after all.

I turn to face the man, my new Daddy, the magician. He strokes my hair lovingly and presses his lips to my forehead. "It will take some getting used to Honey," he whispers in the dark, "but soon you'll come to see that you belong here." He pulls me close, my head against his chest, and I feel somewhat soothed but unable to sleep. I've been an insomniac since childhood and I imagine it will be weeks before I sleep soundly in this bed. "I know what you need," he says after a moment and reaches into the drawer of the bedside table.

"I made this book myself," he says with a hint of pride in his voice as he withdraws a picture book from the drawer. "I even sketched the illustrations." I peek at the foxes on the first page and can't help the small smile that forms on my lips before I close my eyes and allow myself to rest against him. I can't recall the last time someone read to me before sleep, but if it works I'll try anything.

Deep in the woods there lives a little fox, he begins to read,who often has trouble falling asleep. Citrouille begins to snore loudly from the floor.The little fox has heard rumors of a spring nearby whose waters would cause even the largest bear to fall asleep with only a few sips. The little fox, being very tired, begins to walk very slowly down the path to the spring, pausing to yawn along the way. His voice begins to take on a melodic quality.

You might wonder what the path looks like or even what the dirt would feel like against your bare feet as you also walk down the path. I imagine myself wandering down a long dirt road in the forest and yawn against his chest.

The little fox looks ahead towards the stream, but finds his eyelids so very heavy, my new Daddy continues, his voice seeming to become more distant now.You might notice your eyelids are becoming very heavy too. The little fox isn't sure if he will make it to the stream or simply FALL ASLEEP NOW. I'm unsure what happens next in the story as I sink deeply into the mattress and lose all conscious thought.

I come to awareness gently as the sunlight streams through the window and onto my face. I wake feeling well rested but with the sense that I've had the strangest dreams. I stroke the lock, inlaid in my throat, and find I'm no longer distressed at its presence. In fact, it's as if it has been there all along.

I notice the lavender jumper on a chair in the corner of the room, laid out next to a white T shirt and socks. On the floor are a pair of high-top sneakers in the same hue as the little dress. The dress isn't as fancy as the one my Daddy has chosen for me to wear in doll form but the color palette serves as an obvious reminder of his preferences. There are no undergarments to be found and I decide this is a recurring theme. The fabrics however, are soft against my skin as I slip them over my head and so I don't mind the lack of bra. I make a quick trip to the bathroom to brush my teeth and find a yellow hair brush with a white daisy on the handle next to a large purple bow. I can tell which toothbrush is mine because it has glitter imbedded in the plastic. It's as if the items were made for play and not intended for a real person to use. The toothbrush is green, my favorite color.

Dressed neatly with my hair braided to the side and the bow at the bottom, I follow my nose towards the scent of pancakes. I find my Daddy perusing the newspaper and drinking his coffee as if nothing out of the ordinary had passed at all last night. The place to his left is set with brightly colored floral-patterned china and utensils, and I begin to feel I'm living in a sort of doll house. I reach for the yellow mug, hoping that I have coffee too, before he catches my wrist softly and warns me. "Be careful Darling, there is coffee in your cup too and it's still very hot."

I sigh, inhaling deeply before taking a sip. The French roast caresses my tongue and I feel a sense of deep satisfaction that reaches my bones. It's blended perfectly with a splash of almond milk and no sugar, just the way I prefer it. "You'll have to tell Daddy what sort of pancakes you like best," he says breaking my reverie. "I went with chocolate chip thinking it was a safe bet."

"I love chocolate chip," I grumble through a mouthful of confectionary bliss, "but my favorite of all are lemon with blueberries." He smiles at me and lets me know that we'll have healthier options most days but that he'd wanted to have something special for my first morning.

Between bites, Daddy informs me that he has some work to do. He doesn't say exactly what it is that he does for work, but walks off with a purpose. I think he must be quite successful to have built this life, regardless of his field. He's told me to "go ahead and explore" my new home and so with Citrouille at my side, I wander out into the garden I'd seen on my arrival.

At the edge of the property, just before the wall, is a real greenhouse with blue glass panes. As we slip inside and lose ourselves amongst the orchids and other exotic plants, I look around for a place to sit and rest. Finding a bench near a small electric fountain, I sit and close my eyes prepared to practice some relaxation mindfulness that I'd learned in yoga class a few years prior. Unfortunately, I'm not the most adept at meditation and as I listen to the water bubbling my thoughts begin to replay the night before.

I hadn't been sure how I ended up on the floor in the purple room at all, but suddenly the memory comes crashing back like a wrecking ball through my peaceful musings. I touch the lock at my throat and begin to feel panic. I consider taking Citrouille and trying to run but this thought is replaced with the very strong impression that the walls around the property are very tall indeed and it is unlikely that I would slip away unseen.

Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I have chosen this path, and so far, my new Daddy has held up his end of our bargain. He's tried very hard to put me at ease and there was nothing in the contract that prohibited the use of enchantment. I'm reminded of the unfavorable terms for breaking the contract, but feel this isn't truly at the root of my resolve to see our arrangement through.

He hasn't really harmed me and while I still reserve a degree of skepticism, I realize that I'm drawn to him and the fantasy of a life with a bit of magic. Decision made, calm sweeps over me and I am filled with determination to start this new life on the right foot. I see some vases collecting dust in the corner of the greenhouse next to an assortment of pruning shears and decide to surprise my new Daddy with an arrangement.

As I snip away and fluff the flowers in the vase, Citrouille finds a sunny spot to nap at my feet. I work for the better part of an hour before I'm startled by a cry from behind me. Citrouille leaps into the air, overturning several plants in the process, and I whirl around in shock to face an older woman in worn jeans and an apron over her T shirt.

"These plants are priceless," she says breathlessly, "you can't just chop them into pieces for decoration!" I turn to look at my creation and it dawns on me what I've done. By the time I muster the courage to face her again I find my Daddy in her place. "I see you've met our resident gardener," he says sternly taking in my creation. "It really is quite lovely Honey," he says softening a bit, "and really this is my fault for leaving you to your own devices without supervision."

Without another word he scoops up the vase in one hand and holds out the other for mine. I take it and Citrouille trots along beside us until we reach the house. He prefers to stay outside in the sunshine for as long as possible and seems to be thoroughly enjoying his new surroundings.

Daddy sets the vase on the dining room table where we ate breakfast. "We may as well enjoy them now that the damage is done," he says, "and Daddy appreciates the effort you put in but we can't have you getting into any more trouble."

He leads me to stand before a large grandfather clock at the bottom of the stairs. I can hear an audible tic with each swing of the pendulum. "This has been in my family for generations," he says softly gesturing to the clock and opening the cabinet. "Look at how smoothly it runs still." As I listen to the clock and watch the ornately crafted pendulum sway he begins to speak again.

"Daddy will be available again for tea this afternoon and dinner at six in the evening," he begins. "After dinner you will have his undivided attention." I look at the clock. It's only ten in the morning and I can't imagine how I'll fill the time if I'm not allowed to explore. "Watch the pendulum," he insists and I return my gaze to the innards of the clock. The sway of the pendulum is mesmerizing and it pulls at my attention.

"I think that even good girls get into trouble when unattended," he whispers behind me stroking my hair before pulling it softly. He arranges a chair from the dining room set behind me. "Dolls however," he continues leading me to sit with my head resting comfortably against the tall back, "have no sense of time at all. As a doll you might notice that you will not be bored or get into any mischief. You will not notice the sun shifting in the sky or have any needs to be attended to. You will hear only the ticking of the clock and soon, you might notice that even that will fade to silence. In fact, once I turn your key you will become a doll and I suspect that you will cease to think at all."

The pendulum continues to swing and I feel as though I'm being drawn into the cabinet of the clock. The ticking drowns out all other sound around me and then begins to fade. My Daddy reaches out, inserts the delicate key into the lock in my throat, and turns it with a palpable click.

I pause for a moment and then two. I sigh in relief. No magic this time. I reach up above my collar bones to remove the key and find only an empty lock. I look to my Daddy who, key in hand, smiles at me and asks if I'm hungry. I realize suddenly that I am famished and also that I need to relieve my bladder. Halfway up the stairs to find the bathroom that I'd used the night before, I whip around to look at the face of the clock. I feel the vibrations as it chimes just a single time. It's now one in the afternoon.

I use the bathroom quickly and hear Daddy calling me from downstairs. "Meet me in the downstairs parlor," he says raising his voice just loudly enough for me to hear. As I join him in the sunny room, decorated in creams and pale yellows, he gestures to another fainting couch. He seems to have an affinity for antique styled furniture. I sip my tea and find it's an Egyptian licorice blend, again my favorite. The tea is too unusual to be already in the collection of most casual tea drinkers and it dawns on me that he has used the week preceding my arrival to stock his home, our home, with my preferred items listed in my online questionnaire.

As I munch on some cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, he offers me a plate of colorful Macarons. He observes me carefully as I select two flavors, lemon and pistachio. "I want you to feel as though you have my undivided attention," he says matter-of-factly. "Unfortunately, work is something that Daddy has to do from time to time. Eventually I hope I'll come to trust you to entertain yourself while I am working." He stands to exit the room briefly and returns with the vase. "Which sort of flowers are your favorite?" he asks.

"Tulips," I reply.

"If only you had chosen to uproot some tulips," he chuckles and I blush. "It's alright Darling," he soothes allowing me to meet his eyes. "You speak French also?" he inquires, before kissing me softly.

"Oui Papa," I reply. I wonder if he speaks my native language too.

"I speak only a little myself, but after this morning's escapades I think I have finally chosen a suitable name for you," he laughs softly again answering my question. "I think Fleur will suit you very nicely and remind me of both your loveliness and your mischief."

The clock chimes again from the hallway, twice this time. "Time to get back at it," Daddy says taking a step towards me. I cover my throat instinctively. "Fleur," he says sternly, repeating my new name, "I've forgiven this morning's incident in the greenhouse as it was an accident, but Daddy will not tolerate you denying him access to any part of your body."

I leave my hand in place. "Come now," he says taking a seat beside me, "please don't make Daddy punish you on your second day." I turn my gaze away but do not remove my hand. He sighs deeply and then, as if I weigh nothing, pulls me across his lap and flips up my skirt so that my bottom is exposed.

"I'll need you to count," he says, "in French if you please." Before I have time to understand his meaning, the first crack of his palm lands against my bare skin and it begins to heat. "If you don't count, it doesn't count," he reminds me.

"Un!" I cry out. I squirm on his lap with tears in my lashes but I reach "dix" before the spanking ends leaving my bum feeling hot and stinging.

Daddy dips his fingers into my core, massaging until I become slick, and cradling me in his lap presses them into my mouth. "All of you belongs to me, yes?" he asks, stroking my hair and cuddling me.

"Yes Daddy," I answer, tears now spilling freely from my eyes. I really do want to please him.

"Good girl Fleur," he praises. "Let Daddy see your keyhole now." I tilt my chin upwards and he produces the key. This time he says nothing. He simply inserts the key into the lock and turns it.

I blink and find myself slightly disoriented. I'm no longer on my Daddy's lap, but rather my body is arranged in a reclining position on the chaise and he is standing over me holding the key. I imagine how I appear to the observer and realize I must look like a little doll, set on the furniture for decoration until its owner is ready to resume play.

We eat dinner in relative silence. I have a lot to think about and Daddy seems to recognize that I need some time to organize my thoughts. After the meal, he leads me to the bath again and this time I select an amber colored bottle that smells like ginger and honey to create fragrant bubbles. As I soak in the spicily scented water, he works a bar of unscented French milled soap into a lather in his hands. He doesn't use a sponge to wash me this time, allowing his hands to slide over my body. He leans in and kisses me softly as his hand slips between my legs. "I just want my good girl tonight," he whispers.

Daddy's fingers seem to dance as they explore my soft folds. I begin to swivel my hips against his hand as the pleasure intensifies and I reach towards release. He stops abruptly however and chastises me lightly. "Lie still Honey, you will come only when Daddy is ready." I relax back against the slope of tub as he resumes his teasing touches. I whimper when I feel I can stand it no longer and eventually he grants me mercy. "Come now," he says as the orgasm tears through me and leaves me convulsing gently in the frothy water.

Daddy shampoos and rinses my hair as I enjoy the aftershocks and I appreciate the tingling sensation of him massaging my scalp. He dries me in a soft towel and carries me to the bedroom. "So clean," he muses to himself, seeming to inhale my scent before laying me out on the bed again, this time close to the edge.

"Lie very still Fleur," he orders as he leans forward and inhales again, this time taking in the scent of the slick between my legs. "If you move, I'll have to bind you," he advises me, and I know that he is serious given the brass rings embedded in each of the massive four posts on the bed. I'm quite relieved that I'm left without the restraint of doll form tonight and I don't want to tempt him to change his mind.

"I'll be gentle tonight since I'm sure you're sore," he whispers before pressing his tongue flat against my button. He begins to suck and lick in a torturously slow and unhurried way and I fight not to grind my hips upwards into his mouth. He senses the struggle and I feel him smile against my skin. "Come for me good girl," he says, and I detonate again.

Daddy joins me on the bed and rolls me onto my belly and then onto splayed knees. I feel his hard shaft pulse against the cheeks of my bum before he pulls my back against his chest and slowly enters my core from behind. "What do you call this," he whispers with one hand crossing my chest to hold my breast and the other moving to stroke between my legs.

I blush in the dark at the intimate question before giving him an answer.Ma minette, I whisper.

"Yourminette is extremely tight," he praises me as he withdraws and fills me again, stretching me until I feel more fullness than is comfortable. I ache inside and but as pleasure begins to blend with the pain, I realize that this is a lovely kind of hurt.

The hand on my chest plays with each of my nipples before softly wrapping around my throat. The fingers between my legs begin to stroke faster as he takes me with hard staccato strokes. I cry out as he commands me to come a third time and I feel his warm seed flooding me. I collapse exhausted, as he snuggles me close and whispers about little foxes until I drift off to sleep.

The first full week with my Daddy passes in fragments. I become accustomed to blinking and finding myself in a new location or dressed in new attire. Each day I find myself with an increasing number of activities laid out to keep me busy. One moment I might be standing before an easel with palette in hand and a smock covering my dress to protect me from paint splatter and the next standing in the garden with Citrouille by my side ready to get some exercise in the fresh air. Daddy joins me for meals and engages me in conversation. Sometimes he appears to watch my progress while I paint. I find that my canvases are filled with dolls and flowers these days.

As each day passes, I listen for the toll of the clock. I discover that the periods of time lost are becoming shorter and less frequent, and yet I find myself with no time at all to stray or be overtaken by boredom. In the evenings he bathes and dresses me and tells me whether he'd prefer his good girl or his doll as a companion before bed. As a human, he treats me with great gentleness and as a doll he fucks my immobile form with abandon. I often dream of forests and little foxes.