Turn the Key 06 - Face the Music

Author's Note: Face the Music may be read as a standalone but for maximum enjoyment, read it as part of the Turn the Key series! CW: Mind control, impact, doll play, bdsm. All characters are consenting adults.

"Face the Music"

Tears stream down my face. I should have locked the door. I know I've made a terrible mistake. My mind is a whirl of emotions but panic takes the lead and I wring the lilac comforter of the guest room bed in my hands so tightly that my knuckles turn white.

"Tell me one more time Honey," my Daddy coaxes. "Try not to leave out any details." The police officer standing behind him clears his throat and tries to interject again, but takes a big step back and holds his hands up in surrender when he sees the feral expression on my Daddy's face. "Go ahead Baby," Daddy soothes, only gentleness directed at me.

By rights he should be furious. I take a deep breath and collect my thoughts. "Ana brought me a present," I whimper, finding my voice. "I was so excited that we ran up the stairs and I left the door unlocked. I promise I was going to go back down and bolt it!" I blurt out. The officer rolls his eyes. He looks like a cartoon character with a blonde mustache, much too large for his young face, and shiny bald head. My lip trembles and my Daddy actually growls, causing the mustache to press himself so hard against the wall that I think he might be trying to blend in with the wallpaper.

My Daddy squeezes my hand softly and I continue. "We got...distracted," I say, my face turning tomato red thinking of the glitter cock and Ana's soft lips on my body. I take another breath and relay the rest of the story for the third time.

We'd heard the noise on the stairs and I, being the bolder of our duo had crept over to the door with the cock, the only object at hand, raised above my head. Ana had then tiptoed behind the door so as to be out of sight and whispered a count of three before yanking it open.

At the top of the stairs had been a man.Non, I wasn't able to describe what he looked like in any detail beyond his roughly six-foot height and muscular build. He'd had a black balaclava over his face, cliché really. The only other detail I'd been able to recall was the shock in his blue eyes when I'd burst through the door, stark naked, and thrown the dildo with all of my might, striking him directly in the face.

The officer holds up a clear plastic evidence bag containing the blue phallus, and I suspect my face turns purple this time as I nod in acknowledgement. Citrouille jumps up on the bed to comfort me, and circling before he lies down, he steps directly on the abandoned remote left lying on the bed. The evidence bag begins to vibrate furiously causing the officers cheeks to flush a color I can only refer to asaubergine.

I click the remote again, bringing the room back to silence, and the officer approaches Citrouille with a long cotton swab in his nitrile gloved hand. Citrouille and my Daddy growl in unison now and Blondie tosses me a pair of gloves and swab before rejoining the potted plant in the corner of the room. I put on the gloves and gently swab Citrouille's teeth before depositing it into the little liquid filled tube and kissing the pink spots on his brown and white muzzle. Ready to be done with this whole affair, I launch back in to the story.

The dildo had simply bounced off his forehead, not knocking the man down the stairs, but the moment of stunned surprise had been all Citrouille had needed to fly into action. He'd pounced, toppling the man backwards all the way to the landing and biting him on the thigh. Afraid for Citrouille's safety, Ana and I had begun pelting the man with anything at hand. I nod at the rest of the evidence bags filled with the leather harness, broken pieces of a terracotta pot that had once housed an African violet, and a forest green ballet style shoe with gold embroidery.

The man had managed to scramble down the rest of the stairs and out the front door. I'd held Citrouille back, wanting to protect him, and Ana had slammed the door shut and locked it. The rest had been history. We'd called our respective Daddies. Luckily, mine had not yet boarded his flight, and both had arrived before the police had come to take our reports. We, Citrouille included, had been thoroughly inspected for injuries and eventually after many tears and cuddles had given our statements.

When the blue and white cruisers finally pull out through the massive gate at the end of the drive, I feel I'm able to take my first full breath since the incident began. I snuggle into my Daddy's side as I wave a tearful goodbye to Ana and while he hugs me in return, I look up into a significantly sterner gaze. I swallow hard realizing that maybe I've relaxed too soon.

Without a word, my Daddy takes me by the hand and into the house. He pauses by the door and looks at it pointedly. I push the door closed and feel the snick of the bolt sliding into place as I lock it tightly. My Daddy nods once in approval and I pale a little as he leads me up the stairs and onto the podium in the purple room.

"Daddy loves you very much," he says sternly, "and while I was tempted to let this incident stand on its own as a lesson about personal safety, there remains the concern that you gave me your word about locking the door." It's my turn to nod once in silence, I know this is a very serious offence. "I know that you had every intention of following though," he continues, "and so I won't go so far to say that you intentionally broke a promise, but I want this to serve as a reminder that when Daddy gives you a direct order, promptness counts."

Bravely I raise my chin and offer my throat as I allow my soft yellow bathrobe to pool at my feet, leaving me bare. I'm not surprised when produces the key from his pocket and inserts it into the heart shaped lock in my hollow. Internally, I fill with dread as I hear it click in the lock but rather than fear, my face reflects the serene expression of a perfect doll.

I hear a tap on the podium and I know Daddy has produced a sort of elegant walking stick from the corner of the room. I can't turn to see it, but the glint of the large amethyst ball on the end catches the edge of my vision. My arms raise above my head like a ballerina. As a doll I've been programmed to strike a series of poses automatically, one for each tap on the podium. My body moves gracefully and without any thought on my part. It hinges forward at the waist, arms extended in a table top position, when the next tap lands. I have no control over my form, but am no longer disconcerted by my limbs moving of their own accord. I wait for the third tap which will cause my head and torso to rotate slightly to the side so that I'm able to see my Daddy where he stands on my right. There are roughly a dozen poses in the podium series and I know that when the taps stop, no matter which pose I am in, my body will remain frozen in place.

The third tap never comes and I remain with my face parallel to the floor. My Daddy deliberately holds the walking stick under my face so that I can see it and does something he's never done before. He twists the Amethyst orb to the left, and I realize it's actually a sheath of sorts as he withdraws a very different sort of cane. "Time to face the music darling," he says sternly and I gasp in my mind.

My Daddy steps away and returns with a tiny music box from my vanity. I've only ever received spanks from him in the past and I know that the rules dictate that the spanks will continue until the music box stops playing. I imagine the same will apply to the cane and I strain my ears for the sound of gears in an attempt to ascertain how many times he winds the box.

He sets the round box, royal purple and gilded in gold, on the podium directly under my face. When he opens the top of what might be mistaken for a vintage powder box, a tiny ballerina begins to twirl and the first notes of Tchaikovsky's "Swan Theme" begin to drift towards my ears. The bizarre contrast of the balletic melody and the punishment that I'll receive strikes me only a moment before the first blow of the cane.

This is not a spank, and while I can't move or make any noise I cry out in my mind. There is no counting as a doll, only the music and thrum of the cane through the air before it lashes the skin on my bottom and thighs. My worst spanking to date has lasted for six turns of the music box key, but I'm not sure I'll be able to bare the canes for the three I recall hearing this time.

I begin to lose time as each stinging strike lands, increasing in speed and intensity. The tiny box attempts one last crescendo but the music is drowned out by the scream in my head as I receive my final blow. And then there is silence. The ballerina stops twirling, and my vision swims for a moment as I feel my Daddy's strong arm wrap around my waist.

Steadied on my feet, he steps away and resumes his taps of the walking stick on the podium. My body contorts and bends through the rest of the poses at such a rapid pace that it appears to be a strange sort of dance. I feel like the ballerina in the box as I resume my upright pose and my pre-recorded response comes robotically out of my mouth. "Thank you Daddy."

He steps in front of me to turn my key and before I collapse into his arms, I see the tears streaming down his face. "I can't lose you," he whispers as he carries me to the bathroom.

My Daddy gently washes me in the bath. The bubbles smell like lavender and chamomile. Tears stream down my face now too, but I remain silent throughout his ministrations. My thighs and bum are covered in welts and even the towel stings as he gingerly pats me dry and lays me over his lap on a small bench to gently massage something soothing into my skin. He takes his time before bundling me in a fresh robe, rose colored this time.

I'm laid down on our bed and he kisses my forehead. "Dinner is ready but I'll give you a few minutes to collect your thoughts," he says softly. "Come down when you're ready. I'll wait for you to eat and you don't need to dress for dinner tonight."

When the door closes softly behind me, I sob into the pillow. My small frame heaves against the plush bedlinens and I release all of my fear from the morning and all of my relief at having narrowly escaped our attacker. I let my tears flow freely, carrying with them the shock at the brutality of the punishment I have received. The image of my Daddy's eyes filled with tears stings so much more than my bruised skin and I'm filled with the knowledge that each blow hurt him far more than it hurt me.

Citrouille smacks the door with the top of his head, popping it open and springing up onto the bed. He knows he's not allowed up here but he licks the tears from my face and snuggles me until I'm calm. "It'll be our little secret I tell him," and I slowly lift my aching body off of the bed and slide down to the floor.

It hurts to sit down at the dining room table and my Daddy, taking pity on me, suggests we take our plates into the yellow parlor where we can sit on the sofa instead. We eat silently and Citrouille digs in to what appears to be a sizable cut of steak on platter on the floor, just rewards for the hero of the day. Setting our plates aside, my Daddy opens his arms and in his soulful eyes I catch a hint of fear that I'll recoil at his touch. I sigh, and as I snuggle into his embrace, I feel the tension drain out of his body. "I'm so sorry I whimper," my eyelids becoming heavy in his lap.

"I know Honey," he whispers in a tone that says "so am I."